UBRARY 

University  of   C«liforn* 

IRVINE 


THE     VAGABOND 


THE    VAGABOND 


BY    ADAM    BADEAU. 


"  I  stand  condemned, 
A  wandering  vagabond." 

Richard  II. 


NEW    YORK: 

RUDD    Sc    CARL  ETON,    130    GRAND    STREET, 

(BROOKS  BUILDING,  COR.  OF  BROADWAY.) 

MDCCCLIX. 


I 

ios-( 
&5 
V3 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1859,  by 

ADAM    BADEAU, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


R.    CRAIGIIEAD, 

Printer,  Stereotype!-,  and  Electrotyper, 

Carton  Suiltitiig, 
81,  83,  and  85  Centrt  Strut. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOl 

Preface, 6 

Introductory, 7 

Gottschalk  and  Thalberg, 15 

Thorwaldsen, 22 

The  Matinees, 28 

Meyerbeer, 35 

Matilda  Heron, T. 42 

E.  H.  Chapiu, 49 

Niblo's, 56 

French  Art  in  New  York, 64 

Edwin  Forrest, 71 

La  Grange, 78 

"The  World's  Own," 85 

The  Amateurs, 93 

Verdi, 100 

Myself, 106 

Henry  W.  Bellows, .«. 112 

American  Art, 12C 

American  Playwrights, 128 

Parties, 135 

The  Ballet, 143 

The  National  Academy  of  Design, 151 


vi  Contents. 

PAGB 

Charlotte  Bronte, 158 

My  Unknown  Correspondents, 1  GO 

The  Country, 174 

The  Watering-Places, 180 

Behind  the  Scenes, 1ST 

Lake  George, 194 

The  Howadji, 200 

Charlotte  Cushman, 207 

Edward  Everett, 213 

American  Sculpture, 221 

Washington  Society, 228 

Pre-Raphaelitism, 235 

Mrs    Kemble, 242 

American  Belles, 249 

Carl  Formes, 256 

Rachel, 2(53 

An  Amateur  Opera, 272 

Henry  Ward  Beecher, 279 

Edwin  Booth, T 28G 

The  Beaux, 293 

George  Bancroft, 301 

The  Prima  Donnas, 308 

Rossini, 3 1 5 

The  Married  Belles, 321 

Boston, . .    327 

The  Preachers, 333 

Piccolomini, 340 

A  Night  with  the  Booths, 347 

Society  and  Art, '. 355 

Longfellow, 36d 


INTRODUCTORY. 


"The  origin  and  commencement."— Hamlet. 

I  AM  a  Vagabond:  I  care  not  who  knows  it,  nor  who  5i 
frightened  from  perusing  my  papers  because  of  the  announce 
ment.  You  who  dwell  in  dull  propriety  for  ever,  may  be 
shocked;  you  who  take  names  for  things,  may  abut  up  the 
book ;  you  may  remember  that  Johnson  defined  a  Vagabond  as 
"a  term  of  reproach,"  and  that  he  stigmatized  vagabundus  as 
"  low  Latin,"  the  lexicographer !  but  you  must  at  least  admit 
that  I  who  have  so  exact  an  appreciation  of  rny  own  character, 
am  likely  to  be  correct  in  my  notions  about  other  people. 

Vagabond  has  a  merry  sound  in  my  ears ;  the  word  is  at 
any  rate  classical  French,  and  vagare  was  good  enough  Latin  for 
Virgil ;  while  as  regards  English,  Shakespeare  used  it ;  and 
though  Richard  III.  does  spoak  of  "  vagabonds,  rascals,  and  run 
aways,"  all  in  one  breath,  surely  the  Crookback  is  poor  autho 
rity  in  such  matters;  and  though  La  Feu  does  say  to  Parolles,  in 
"  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,"  "You  are  a  vagabond,  and  no  true 


viii  Introductory. 

traveller,"  La  Feu  was  himself  a  scamp  unworthy  of  belief.  I 
maintain  that  the  vagabonds  are  an  illustrious  fraternity.  ^Eneas, 
plus  ^Eneas,  madam,  was  one  of  the  first,  wandering  around  the 
Lybian  shores;  and  Homer;  (you  have  heard  of  the  poet? 
Yes  ?)  did  he  not  write  the  Odyssey,  which  is  nothing  but  a 
history  of  the  adventures  of  a  vagabond  ?  Ulysses  had  a  good 
time,  too,  with  Calypso  and  Circe,  and  he  escaped  both  Scylla 
and  Charybdis,  did  he.  Then  the  knights-errant  of  chivalry, 
what  were  they  but  vagabonds  ?  Their  very  name  indicates 
their  vagrant  habits.  'Tis  true  that  Webster's  dictionary  is 
worse  than  Johnson's ;  it  does  say  "  by  the  laws  of  England 
and  the  United  States,  vagabonds  are  liable  to  be  taken  up  and 
imprisoned ;"  but  Webster  couldn't  spell,  and  one  of  his  name 
was  hanged;  so  how  can  he  be  right?  Blackstone,  a  person 
who  wrote  commentaries  on  law,  a  century  ago,  approaches 
nearer  to  justice  in  his  comments  on  my  tribe :  "  Idle  persons 
or  vagabonds,  whom  our  ancient  statutes  describe  to  be  such 
as  wake  at  night  (correct),  and  sleep  on  the  day  (after  a  ball), 
and  haunt  customable  taverns  and  alehouses,  and  routs  about ; 
(well,  who  don't  go  to  routs  that  gets  invited),  and  no  man 
wot  from  whence  they  came,  nor  whither  they  went."  And 
why  should  any  man  have  wot?  let  any  man  restrain  his  curiosity. 
Two  other  old  authors  are  all  I  shall  quote  to  show  how  versed 
I  am  in  antiquarian  lore. 

Holinshed  says :  "  The  vagabond  that  will  abide  nowhere,  but 
runneth  up  and  down  from  place  to  place,"  and  Du  Cange  ex- 


Introductory.  ix 

claims :  "  Vagabundus  que  non  habet  domicilium,  sed  hodie  hie 
et  eras  alibi."  The  women  at  least  are  silenced  by  my  Latin 
sentence;  that  is  to-  them  unanswerable;  if  they  try  me  any 
further,  I  vow  I'll  give  them  Greek  ;  so  ladies  beware ! 

But  do  you  want  to  know  of  some  more  vagabonds  ?  There  are 
Benedick  and  Jaques,  both  good  fellows ;  and  Gil  Bias  of  Santil- 
lane,  the  companion  of  lackeys  and  their  lords,  the  secretary  of 
archbishops,  the  comrade  of  banditti,  and  the  favored  swain  of 
half  a  score  of  black-eyed  Castilian  damsels ;  Cortez  and  Pizarro 
too,  were  nothing  but  vagabonds  on  a  grander  scale.  The 
Spaniards  with  all  their  stately  ceremony  seem  inclined  this 
way ,  for  think  of  the  noble  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  that  Wallack 
has  played  so  superbly ;  ragged  and  courteous,  full  of  feeling 
and  frolic,  ripe  for  any  mischief,  and  ready  for  any  generous 
deed ;  the  very  prince  of  vagabonds.  Then  there's  Captain  John 
Smith  in  our  own  history,  whose  name  will  remind  every  one 
that  the  sex  is  not  averse  to  these  good-for-nothing,  fortunate 
scamps.  Has  not  dear,  dusky,  little  Pocahontas  rendered  her 
self  for  ever  famous  by  flinging  her  copper-colored  arms  round 
a  vagabond's  head  ?  And  would  not  I  be  willing  that  fairer 
maids  should  follow  the  example  to-day  ?  And  don't  some  fro 
licking,  rollicking,  saucy  blade,  without  a  tittle  of  your  worth, 
Mr.  Spectator,  or  a  pretension  to  your  learning,  Mr.  Rambler, 
with  none  of  the  qualities  that  should  bear  the  palm,  but-  only  a 
vagabond,  don't  he  often  distance  all  his  rivals  in  modern  draw 
ing-rooms  ? 

1* 


x  Introductory 

I  am  a  vagabond  around  town.  I  go  prying  into  all  sorts  of 
places,  and  frequent  every  corner  of  Manhattan.  I  purpose  one 
day  to  give  you  a  sketch  of  some  scene — say  in  a  pawnbroker's 
shop,  and  at  another  time  will  discuss  the  marvellous  beauty  ol 
an  opera  singer's  legs.  I  am  an  habitue  of  the  Academy  ot 
Music,  but  often  kill  time  by  dropping  in  at  the  shows  of  marvel 
lous  beasts  and  five-legged  donkeys  on  Chatham  street.  I  visit 
all  places  of  worship,  from  black  prayer-meetings  to  the  yearly 
gatherings  of  the  Friends,  go  to  hear  Antoinette  Brown  and  Dr. 
Hawks ;  I  will  sometimes  tell  you  what  I  have  seen  behind  the 
curtain,  and  sometimes  discuss  the  merits  of  a  favorite  actor  on 
the  stage.  Pictures  and  parties,  beaux  and  bores,  all  I  study  ; 
art  and  life,  in  all  their  phases  I  like  to  contemplate.  I  have 
peered  among  the  purlieus  of  Justice,  and  burrowed  in  Knicker 
bocker  corners  for  relics  of  our  Dutch  and  Huguenot  ancestry. 
I  am  likely  to  find  out  whatever  there  is  of  queer,  quaint,  or 
passing  strange  in  this  metropolis.  But,  with  all  my  eagerness 
to  catch  the  bubble  of  the  minute  ere  it  burst,  to  crowd  as  much 
experience  into  an  hour  as  any  man,  I  have  my  sober  times, 
and  can  find  sermons  in  stones,  sometimes  more  forcible  than 
those  I  hear  in  churches ;  so  my  lucubrations  may  not  always 
be  in  a  merry  vein.  I  know  not  that  I  am  merrier  than  other 
men.  I  am  young  (else  I  would  not  be  a  vagabond),  and  life 
seems  'pleasant  enough  to  me ;  if  you  look  at  it  with  my  eyes, 
it  will  be  like  gazing  through  Claude  Lorraine  glasses — every 
thing  will  be  in  bright  colors.  Still,  on  a  dull  day,  you  may  get 


Introductory.  xi 

a  soberer  paper,  and  on  a  sunny  one,  you  shall  have  quips  and 
cranks  and  wanton  wiles. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  in  all  my  wanderings,  whithersoever 
I  may  penetrate,  whether  into  mysteries  like  those  of  Bona  Dea, 
from  which  the  entire  masculine  gender  was  excluded,  or  within 
the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  temples,  over  whose  doors  might  be 
inscribed,  as  of  old,  "Procul,  0  procul,  este  profani!"  though  I 
may  tell  you  of  things  that  some  of  you  would  otherwise  dream 
not  of,  though  I  discuss  fashionable  belles  and  reverend  priests, 
as  well  as  Bowery  actresses  or  apple-venders,  I  hope  never  to 
transgress  the  limits  which  good  breeding  imposes.  I  shall  dis 
close  no  secrets  that  ought  to  be  kept,  and  give  no  inquisitive 
gossip  food  for  scandal  So  now  you  know  me.  I  have  intro 
duced  myself,  taken  my  text,  cleared  my  throat,  and  blown  my 

nose ;   otherwise,  Mr. of  Niblo's,  has   called  "  Francois !" 

and  running  out  from  behind  the  scenes,  the  de"butant  bowa 
nis  best  bow,  smiles  his  opening  smirk,  and  is  ready  to  begin. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  papers  were  written  for  a  weekly  periodical 
published  in  New  York.  This  fact  will  account  for  allusions  that 
might  not  otherwise  seem  always  pertinent ;  if  it  should  also 
account  for  the  slight  degree  of  interest  the  articles  may  happen 
to  excite  when  the  pertinency  is  passed,  the  explanation  will  be 
in  some  measure  consolatory  to 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE  VAGABOND. 


GOTTSCHALK  AND  THALBERG 

"Under  which  King,  Bezonian?" 

2  Henry  IV. 

GOTTSCHALK,  the  adored  of  the  ladies,  is  about  to  leave 
us ;  he  has  given  three  concerts,  each  positively  the  last, 
and  another  is  announced.  Gottschalk's  career  as"  an 
American  artist,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  relieves  us 
from  the  reproach  of  neither  producing  nor  appreciating 
genius ;  for  despite  his  numerous  affectations,  and  his  ad 
captandum  artifices,  the  handsome  piano-player  is  a  ge 
nius.  I  heard  him  play,  a  week  ago,  at  the  concert  of  the 
Philharmonic  Society,  and  never  was  more  impressed 
with  his  littleness  and  his  greatness.  He  lounged  listlessly 
towards  the  platform,  scarcely  vouchsafed  a  bow  of 
recognition  as  he  snuffed  up  the  incense  of  applause  prof 
fered  by  his  worshippers  in  pink  bonnets,  and  sat  down 
at  the  instrument.  At  first,  his  hands  wrandered  lan 
guidly  over  the  keys,  and  his  eyes,  soft  and  dreamy, 
but  with  a  blase  expression  strangely  mingling  with 


ift  The  Vagabond. 

their  gentleness,  were  gazing,  not  vacantly,  but  still  not 
intently,  around  the  house.  Occasionally  the  petted 
Adonis  smiled  as  he  caught  the  glance  of  an  acquaint 
ance,  and  then  the  radiance  which  his  worshippers  say  is 
sun-like,  Apollo-like,  came  over  his  countenance.  In 
fact,  he  is  irresistible  ;  there  is  no  use  in  denying  it :  be 
sides,  the  adorers  in  pink  bonnets  frown  on  all  heretics 
who  presume  not  to  bow  at  the  shrine.  The  fiery  fur 
nace  of  their  indignation  is  heated  seven  times  for  such 
presumptuous  offenders.  Have  I  not  seen  the  Saratoga 
beauties,  one  on  each  side  of  Adonis,  fanning  him',  as  he 
sat  exhausted  after  an  unusual  effort  ?  Do  I  not  know 
Massachusetts  blues,  those  cold  and  critical  dames,  who 
treasure  up  a  finger  of  his  glove,  if  haply  they  may 
catch  some  of  the  magnetism  imparted  by  his  inspired 
digits?  What  wonder  if  a  young  and  handsome  artist 
has  his  head  turned  by  such  adulation ! 

But  I  have  wandered  from  the  concert.  The  pianist's 
hand  rambled  for  a  while  carelessly  and  affectedly  over 
the  key-board,  but  at  last  the  interest  of  the  music  ex 
cited  him.  And  though  this  rambling  style  is  not 
without  its  charms,  the  intenser  sort  is  what  carries  the 
hearers  away.  At  first,  Ludwig  shakes  his  head  somewhat 
vehemently,  moves  his  legs  nervously — but,  it  strikes  me, 
rather  more  than  even  his  passionate  nature  suggests, 
catches  at  bits  of  paper  and  conveys  them  to  his  kissable 
mouth  (that  adjective  is  a  lady's),  and  chews  them  franti 
cally.  As  the  music  approaches  a  climax,  he  marks  the 
emphasis  with  his  head  still  more  emphatically — disorders 
his  hyacinthine  locks,  especially  the  one  that  comes  down 
over  his  forehead  so  negligently — chews  harder  than 
ever — raises  his  hands  to  a  prodigious  height  as  he 


Gottschalk  and  Tnalberg.  17 

strikes  the  keys — waves  his  body — changes  the  position 
of  his  legs — but  does  all  this  so  gracefully,  and  wildly, 
and  naturally,  that  he  ends  by  catching  you  up  in  his 
own  enthusiasm ;  and,  criticise  as  you  may  afterwards, 
at  the  time  you  are  as  foolish  as  he.  The  performance 
seems  to  me  a  mere  performance,  at  first ;  but  he  works 
himself  into  the  frenzy,  and  at  last  cannot  help  it  if  he 
would.  All  this  he  is  shrewd  enough  to  know  contributes 
to  his  influence ;  but  it  probably  assists  his  imagination, 
too.  It  is  an  intoxication  to  his  excitable  nature  ;  it  is, 
too,  in  part,  the  necessary  expression  of  that  nature. 

But  I  should  do  the  artist  great  injustice  if  I  stopped 
here  without  talking  of  his  music — so  Avild,  so  dreamy, 
so  passionate ;  of  his  playing — so  exquisite,  so  Chopin- 
like,  so  inspired.  Gottschalk  has  the  real  artist  tempera 
ment.  The  odor  of  heliotropes  affects  him  prodigiously, 
and  we  all  know  how  susceptible  he  is  to  the  charms  of 
beauty.  Doubtless  the  reputation  of  his  successes  with 
the  sex,  and  of  his  cruelty,  adds  zest  to  their  admiration. 
At  any  rate,  he  plays  just  as  one  would  imagine  a  poet 
in  love  to  do  :  he  plays  poems,  and  dreams,  and  passions. 
He  reminds  one  of  the  description  of  Chopin,  consump 
tive  and '  down-cast  in  that  deserted  abbey  in  Madeira, 
playing  for  hours  passionate  fantasies  and  weird-like 
strains  to  his  mistress.  He  makes  you  forget  the  con 
cert-room  and  the  gaslights,  your  gloves  and  your  lorg 
nette,  and  give  yourself  up  to  a  sort  of  infatuation  ;  you 
dream,  you  feel,  you  listen,  you  enjoy.  This  is  all  inde 
finite  criticism;  but  those  who  appreciate  Gottschalk 
will  tell  you  if  such  is  not  the  effect  he  produces.  You  are 
not  inclined  to  talk  of  the  precision  of  his  touch,  or  to 
count  his  time  ;  you  lose  sight  of  the  mechanical  means : 


i8  The  Vagabond. 

you  are  interested  only  in  the  result.  Those  melting 
strains,  those  wailing  passages,  those  inspired,  exalted 
bursts,  what  have  they  to  do  with  demi-semi-quavers  and 
two-four  time  ?  You  might  as  well  interrupt  Rachel,  in 
her  imprecations  on  Rome,  to  parse  the  language  of 
Corneille. 

We  forgive  our  gifted  countryman  all  his  foibles,  and 
forget  them,  too,  for  the  sake  of  the  tremulous,  rapturous 
music  he  makes  for  us.  We  need  not  wish  him  success 
among  the  wild,  excitable  southerners,  towards  whom  he 
wends  his  way.  He  had  heaped  up  his  laurels  before  he 
came  among  us ;  though  born  here,  his  first  triumphs  were 
abroad.  He  first  appealed  to  us  for  our  plaudits  when 
his  head  was  already  crowned  with  laurels  placed  there 
by  the  genius  and  the  sovereigns  of  Europe.  At  the 
outset  he  was  not  appreciated,  but  he  bided  his  time, 
and  at  last  the  harvest  was  ripe.  He  gave  fifty  concerts 
in  New  York  last  season,  and  at  this  moment  is  not 
only  more  a  favorite  than  any  American  artist  ever  has 
been,  among  Americans,  but  better  appreciated  and  bet 
ter  liked  than  any  artist  in  the  New  World. 

What  a  change  from  Gottschalk  to  Thalberg  !  The 
one  all  genius,  the  other  all  art;  the  one  young,  im 
passioned,  irregular,  fitful ;  the  other  middle-aged,  calm, 
unimpassioned,  but  omniscient  and  omnipotent  as  far  as 
his  piano  is  concerned.  Gottschalk  surprises,  moves,  en 
trances  ;  Thalberg  diffuses  serene  pleasure,  and  performs 
unheard-of  feats  with  perfect  ease.  One  is  Apollo,  the 
other  Jupiter.  It  is  the  old  comparison  ;  the  real  and 
the  ideal,  Rachel  and  Ristori,  Kemble  and  Kean.  One 
excites,  the  other  soothes  ;  one  is  intensely  human,  the 
other  half  divine.  But  there  is  no  rivalry  between  the 


Gottschalk  and  Thalberg.  19 

two  artists ;  their  followers  only  contend,  and  how  fool 
ishly !  Because  a  rose  is  sweet,  must  I  not  smell  a  vio 
let  ?  Because  Naples  is  lovely,  has  Como  no  charms  ? 
A  Vagabond  can  enjoy  all  the  romance  and  the  fervor 
of  Gottschalk,  and  none  the  less  appreciate  the  marvel 
lous  perfection  of  Thalberg. 

Still  the  battle  rages  furiously  in  the  saloons  of  the 
metropolis ;  rival  forces  attack  each  other  at  the  opera 
and  at  morning  visits.  Not  even  the  election  campaign 
was  half  so  bitter  as  this  strife,  which  divides  families 
and  separates  sets.  Engagements  are  broken  off,  because 
the  lover  persists  that  Gottschalk's  eyes  have  a  greenish 
tinge ;  and  I  have  lost  more  than  one  invitation  for  not 
avowing  myself  an  open  adherent  of  Thalberg. 

Generally,  the  young  muster  under  Gottschalk's  ban 
ners.  His  beauty  has  subdued  all  the  ladies  under  twen 
ty-five  (which  includes  all  under  thirty-five),  while  the 
young  men  find  his  music  faster  than  Thalberg's,  and  so 
appreciate  him  better.  But,  with  the  last  there  is  a 
spice  of  jealousy  :  they  would  support  Gottschalk  en 
masse,  were  it  not  he  is  so  much  admired  by  the  pink 
bonnets  ;  whereas  the  travelled  people,  the  blase,  the 
critics,  and  that  sort,  prefer  Thalberg.  They  like  the 
music  which  it  requires  a  more  cultivated  taste  to  appre 
ciate,  which  it  implies  bad  taste  not  to  admire.  So,  some 
are  in  a  quandary ;  they  want  to  appear  youthful,  but 
would  not  for  the  world  seem  uncritical.  What  shall 
they  do  ? 

Thalberg's  quiet  ease  and  his  unconstrained  demea 
nor  (which  Mr.  Willis  said  was  shopboy-like),  pre 
possessed  me  in  his  favor.  He  never  seems  making 
an  effort.  He  is  conscious  of  his  greatness,  but  so 


2o  The  Vagabond. 

conscious  that  he  need  not  obtrude  it.  He  plays  with 
perfect  self-command.  He  has  no  inspirations,  it  is  true  ; 
— perhaps  he  has  only  talent ;  but  when  talent  is  so 
marvellously  accomplished,  when  it  produces  such  effects, 
it  is  on  a  level  with  genius.  The  intricate  and  elaborate 
ornamentation  in  which  Thalberg  involves  and  wraps 
his  theme,  at  the  same  time  letting  you  hear  that  theme, 
is  among  the  most  wonderful  effects  of  art.  It  affords 
me  as  much  delight,  though  of  an  entirely  different  sort, 
as  the  rhapsodical  snatches  of  his  younger  rival.  Then, 
his  mastery  of  his  instrument  we  all  know  surpasses 
that  of  any  man  living,  and  at  times  extorts  the  hom 
age  of  the  most  bigoted  Gottschalkites.  There  are 
effects  in  his  performance  of  UElisir  cPAmore,  of 
Norma,  and  of  Mose  in  Egitto,  which  almost  draw 
you  to  your  feet.  I  have  seen  at  these  moments  the 
most  collected  fashionables  and  the  roughest-looking 
people  in  the  room  alike  bursting  with  admiration, 
wonder  and  delight.  Even  the  pink  bonnets  jump  up 
here  and  there  to  see  if  he  really  does  all  that  with  one 
pair  of  hands.  And  it  is  not  simply  amazement  that  the 
master  produces  :  the  pleasure  is  exquisite  enough  to 
set  one's  nerves  titillating,  and  that  is  my  test  of  artis 
tic  excellence.  Whatever  affects  my  spinal  marrow  I 
consider  first-rate,  in  music,  acting,  eloquence,  or  poetry. 
There  is,  however,  one  thing  finer  than  Thalberg's 
playing,  and  which  both  great  armies  of  admirers  will 
admit  to  excel  the  separate  excellence  of  either,  and 
that  is  the  combined  music  made  by  the  two.  They 
recently  played  a  duet  together,  and  in  all  my  musical 
experience,  I  have  seldom  listened  to  such  ravishing 
harmony.  The  audience  rose  and  shouted,  and  little 


Gottschalk  and  Thalberg.  21 

tiny  hands  in  Fiench  gloves  were  clapped,  and  delicate 
lace  fabrics  were  waved,  and  the  two  great  artists 
came  back  to  gather  their  laurels.  It  was  beautiful  in 
them  both,  to  add  thus  to  each  other's  glory.  It  was 
especially  delicate  in  Gottschalk,  who  had  reigned  su 
preme  until  the  very  king  of  pianists  came  to  claim  the 
first  place :  it  was  delicate  in  him,  I  say,  to  show  no 
spite  nor  jealousy.  He  has,  it  is  true,  relinquished  the 
field,  but  gracefully.  He  stayed  long  enough  after  the 
arrival  of  Thalberg  to  show  that  he  feared  not  even  the 
greatest ;  but  he  chose  not  to  contend.  He  takes  with 
him  the  good  wishes  and  hearty  admiration  of  a  crowd 
of  pink  bonnets  and  of  a  Vagabond. 

I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  say  it,  but  I  have 
lately  heard  that  Gottschalk  powders  his  face  so  prodi 
giously  that  his  eyes  look  smaUer  then  they  really  are. 
It  is,  however,  but  just  to  add  that  my  informant  wears 
a  straw-colored  bonnet. 


THORWALDSEN. 

»  — Able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone." 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

THERE  is  an  evident  affinity  between  the  Scandinavian 
character  and  that  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  Sprung, 
indeed,  irom  the  same  stock,  speaking  cognate  languages, 
each  with  the  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair  that  mark  their 
northern  origin,  it  is  not  remarkable  that  the  two 
branches  of  one  great  family  resemble  each  other  in 
national  and  individual  traits.  The  gods  of  England 
and  of  Iceland  were  the  same.  Our  forefathers  worship 
ped  Odin ;  and  Thor  and  Woden,  the  divinities  of  the 
north,  are  still  commemorated  in  the  names  we  Christians 
give  to  the  days  of  the  week.  The  same  warm-hearted 
but  reserved  character,  the  same  silent  tongue,  resolute 
look  and  strong  arm,  bear  witness  to  the  ancient  kin 
dred.  But  especially  in  that  development  of  character 
which  is  exhibited  in  art  is  this  likeness  apparent.  The 
heroes  of  Ossian  and  the  Norsemen  of  Icelandic  sagas 
are  german  to  each  other.  Goethe  and  Shakspeare  are 
not  dissimilar ;  Jenny  Lind  found  a  warmer  welcome  in 
English  and  American  homes  than  captious  Parisian 
critics  would  accord  ;  and  FrederikaBremer's  works  are 
better  known  among  us  than  in  continental  Europe.  Our 
national  mind  appreciates  Scandinavian  art. 

And  in  that  form  of  art  in  which  American  genius  has 


Thorwaldsen.  23 

compelled  the  acknowledgment  of  unwilling  Europe,  in 
which  only  America  has  yet  taken  a  position  at  all  worthy 
of  her  material  greatness,  there  too  has  the  Danish  cha 
racter  found  its  highest  development.  The  field  where 
Powers  and  Greenough  have  reaped  their  laurels,  is  that 
where  Thorwaldsen  has  achieved  his  triumphs.  It  is  fit 
ting  then  that  hither  should  have  been  sent  some  of  the 
worthiest  productions  of  the  great  Scandinavian  artist. 
To  the  new  world,  and  to  its  commercial  emporium,  have 
come  specimens  of  the  glories  of  BertelThorwal'dsen,  of 
those  works  that  his  countrymen  have  garnered  up  from 
Rome  and  Berlin,  and  all  over  Europe,  and  treasured 
hi  a  great  museum  called  after  his  own  name. 

At  the  Crystal  Palace  are  now  the  original  plaster 
models  of  the  "Christ  and  His  Apostles,"  whose  marble 
copies  stand  in  the  Frue  Kirke,  at  Copenhagen  ;  and  in  a 
little  room  on  Broadway  (No.  297),  may  be  seen  many 
of  Thorwaldsen's  famous  bas-reliefs — the  works  of  the 
artist  whom  his  nation  delighted  to  honor,  the  first  sculp 
tor  of  modern  times. 

Statuary  seems  to  be  that  form  of  art  in  which  north 
ern  nations  most  delight  to  clothe  their  ideas  of  the  beau 
tiful.  Whether  it  is  that  colder  natures  find  the  stone  a 
fitting  symbol  of  the  calm  which  distinguishes  them ; 
Avhetherits  unchangeableness  aptly  represents  the  charac 
ter  of  temperate  races,  would  be  hard  to  say.  But  causes 
such  as  these  do  influence  mind  and  its  development. 
Painting,  with  its  warmth  of  color  and  its  powers  of  pas 
sionate  expression,  seems  better  suited  for  the  mobile  in 
habitants  of  the  south,  who  have  ever  excelled  in  the 
pictorial  art.  And  indeed,  when  the  old  Greeks  resorted 
to  statuary,  they  were  fain  to  color  their  marble:  the 
Parian  stone  was  all  too  cold  for  their  torrid  tempera- 


24  The  Vagabond. 

ments.  Ivory  and  gold  adorned  the  statues  of  Phidias, 
and  blue  and  gorgeous  red  enlivened  the  im.nges  of  gods 
and  men  admired  by  the  Athenians.  Our  chaster  but 
possibly  not  more  correct  taste,  rejects  these  ornaments  ; 
and  though  an  attempt  has  been  made  by  a  modern  Ita 
lian  to  revive  the  mode,  critics  of  France  and  England 
disapprove.  However,  whatever  cause  may  exist,  the  fact 
is  undoubted,  that  the  sculptor's  art  in  later  centuries  is 
prosecuted  with  most  success  by  the  children  of  the  north. 

Cold,  the  passionate  southerners  call  us.  They,  brim 
ful  of  life,  and  their  blood  boiling  under  the  rays  of  a 
torrid  sun,  cannot  endure  our  comparative  immobility ; 
but,  in  this  again,  the  statue  images  our  character — not 
fickle,  not  changeable,  but  when  after  years  of  labor  and 
toil,  excellence  is  accomplished,  it  is  fixed  as  the  marble. 
Neither  is  the  northern  character  destitute  of  a  suscepti 
bility  to  genius  and  to  beauty ;  of  a  power  to  render  the 
whisperings  of  nature  in  music  as  exquisite  as  that  which 
Italians  warble ;  to  fashion  the  ideal  into  forms  of  ever 
lasting  grace  and  dignity  ;  to  compel  ev  on  Rome  to  con 
tend  for  the  residence  of  Danish  and  American  artists. 
Witness  Crawford  and  Thorwaldsen  his  master. 

No  more  splendid  and  beautiful  representative  of  Scan 
dinavian  art  ever  existed  than  Albert  Bertel  Thorwald 
sen.  The  child  of  the  people,  he  became  the  companion 
of  kings.  Born  of  poor  and  humble  parentage,  a  nation 
mourned  over  his  funeral,  and  genius,  rank,  and  beauty 
made  part  of  the  pageant  of  his  life.  His  own  genius 
was  the  personification  of  the  aesthetic  spirit  of  his  race. 
All  its  wild  beauty,  all  its  delicate  grace,  all  its  majesty, 
all  its  depth  of  feeling  and  imaginative  sentiment,  find 
expression  in  his  works.  The  exquisite  poetry  of  an 
Undine  is  embodied,  though  under  another  name,  by 


Thorwaldsen.  2  £ 

him.  The  sublime  religious  feeling,  innate  in  the  race, 
that  feeling  which  pervades  the  mythology  of  the  north  ; 
the  genius  of  their  poetry,  the  meaning  of  their  su 
perstition,  the  warmth  of  their  hearts,  are  all  uttered  in 
his  creations.  To  be  sure,  they  find  other  names :  the 
religious  sentiment  is  embodied  in  his  "Christ  and  Apos 
tles,"  while  the  lighter  graces  sought  the  classic  lore  of 
Greece  and  Rome  for  illustration ;  but  it  is  the  national 
spirit  that  has  expression  in  either.  Then  the  absence 
in  all  his  works  of  the  southern  passion  is  equally  re 
markable.  Fulness  of  feeling  he  has  indeed  ;  but  no 
passionate  Niobc  or  Laocoon,  no  Dying  Gladiator  gives 
vent  to  the  over-charged  heart  or  indicates  the  dramatic 
intensity  that  animates  artists  born  in  the  sunny  south. 
Of  tearful  meaning  there  is  plenty — but  none  of  the  wild 
fervor  or  divine  agony  of  southern  art. 

The  finest  creation  of  his  genius  is  that  which  adorns 
the  Crystal  Palace.  The  figures  are  of  the  original  size, 
are  from  the  hand  of  Thorwaldsen  himself,  and  save 
that  they  may  lack  the  rounded  fulness  that  only  mar 
ble  can  display,  are  said  to  be  in  every  way  equal  to 
the  proudest  ornaments  of  Copenhagen.  They  have  all 
the  beauty  of  form,  the  anatomical  correctness,  the  won 
derful  expression,  the  graceful  fall  of  drapery,  and  the 
classic  severity  which  distinguish  the  others.  The  Christ 
stands  colossal  in  size,  godlike  in  attitude,  full  of  benig 
nity,  beautiful  as  Raphael  would  have  conceived,  and 
grand  as  Michael  Angelo  would  have  executed,  saying 
to  the  assembled  disciples :  "  Come  unto  me."  The  gen 
tleness  of  the  invitation,  the  mingled  mildness  and  ma 
jesty  of  the  countenance,  the  union  of  power  and  love, 
are  triumphs  of  the  sculptor.  The  apostles,  larger  than 

2 


26  The  Vagabond. 

life,  but  inferior  in  size  to  the  master,  are  grouped 
around,  each  elevated  on  a  pedestal,  each  distinguished 
by  his  appropriate  symbol — St.  John  by  the  lamb,  St. 
Peter  by  the  keys — but  each  marked  yet  more  plainly 
by  his  individual  expression  ;  Thomas  doubts  and  Peter 
promises,  Paul  preaches  and  John  loves.  The  expres 
sion  in  attitude,  and  limb,  and  lineament,  leaves  no  room 
to  doubt  their  individuality. 

The  height  of  the  figures  contributes  very  greatly  to 
their  effect.  Size  always  conveys  the  idea  of  grandeur, 
and  the  increased  magnitude  of  the  Christ  is  in  accord 
ance  with  the  most  approved  canons  of  art.  Their 
being  elevated  above  the  spectator,  also,  forces  one  to 
look  upwards,  and  contributes  to  the  sentiment  of  awe 
with  which  we  regard  them.  But  more  than  these  mi- 
nutia?,  the  genius  which  is  instinct  in  them  makes  them 
among  the  greatest  specimens  of  Christian  art  ever  exe 
cuted.  They  are  a  sermon  in  themselves.  They  preach 
love,  and  charity,  and  truth  ;  they  speak  of  the  Divine 
calm  and  holy  peace  of  the  God-man,  they  tell  of  Cal 
vary  and  Gethsemane. 

The  exquisite  angel  form  supporting  the  font  is  unri 
valled  in  grace,  and  extremely  admired  by  European 
critics.  William  Howitt,  perhaps  best  fitted  by  his  in 
timate  acquaintance  with  Scandinavian  literature,  and 
by  his  being  so  imbued  with  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  lore 
of  the  north,  to  criticise  and  to  feel  the  meaning  of  Thor- 
waldsen,  declares  the  effect  upon  hims  elf  of  this  angel 
form  to  be  magical ;  but  it  has  always  seemed  to  me 
incongruous — unfitted  for  the  group,  or  for  its  original 
purpose.  Graceful  and  beautiful — airy,  angelic,  if  you 
will — it  always  suggests  to  me  the  supernatural  creations 


Thorwaldsen.  27 

of  the  northern  mythology,  rather  than  those  of  Chris 
tian  belief.  Holding  a  sea-shell  for  a  font,  it  recalls 
to  my  mind  the  fascinating  creatures  of  the  sea — Undine, 
or  those  fair  beings  who  beguiled  mortals  to  their  homes 
beneath  the  ocean.  I  cannot  look  at  it  in  connexion 
with  the  Christ,  and  not  feel  an  unfitness. 

Notwithstanding  that  Thorwaldsen  is  the  embodiment 
of  his  national  art,  he  is  yet  equally  happy  in  portraying 
classic  fable.  Deeply  imbued  with  the  feeling  of  Greek 
and  Roman  mythology,  he  brings  vividly  before  us  the 
white-armed  Andromache,  and  the  crest-shaking  Hec 
tor.  He  illustrates  the  odes  of  Anacreon  with  an  exqui 
site  felicity  and  a  truth  of  rendering  entirely  unequalled. 
His  Bacchus  is  the  very  god  of  wine — crowned  with 
vine  leaves,  naked,  revelling,  intoxicated  with  joy  and 
pleasure,  but  refined,  radiant,  beautiful  with  it  all ; 
his  Venus  is  not  coarse,  though  sensual ;  his  heroes  are 
indeed  demi-gods.  At  the  same  time,  the  original 
poetic  fancies  in  which  he  indulges,  the  creations  which 
his  own  imagination  calls  forth,  are  remarkable  for 
beauty  and  delicacy  of  thought,  grace  of  execution, 
severity  of  taste  and  finish  of  style.  His  "  Day  and 
Night,"  and  his  "  Four  Seasons,"  are  poems  equal  to  the 
most  subtile  fancies  of  Sappho  or  Shelley.  Sentiment  is 
embodied  in  them  ;  love  and  beauty  are  breathed  over 
them.  It  is  not  often  that  on  this  continent  lovers  of 
the  beautiful  can  feast  their  eyes  at  such  a  banquet ;  can 
improve  and  correct  their  tastes  in  such  a  school.  But 
those  who  look  longingly  across  the  seas  to  Dresden  and 
Florence  may  visit  these  productions  and  envy  not  the 
owners  of  Corregios ;  may  for  awhile  forget  the  Venus 
of  the  Tribune,  and  the  Apollo  of  the  Vatican. 


28  The  Vagabond. 


THE    MATINEES. 

"  I  am  advised  to  give  her  music  o'  mornings. 
They  say  it  will  penetrate." 

Cymbeline. 

SHE  seems  to  fike  the  prescription.  It  must  peneti  ate. 
The  manager  was  well  advised  to  give  her  music  o' 
mornings.  Indeed,  if  I  were  fitted  to  advise  opera 
managers,  I  should  say, repeat  the  dose  ad  infinitum  / 
or  as  often  as  the  patient  will  bear  it.  Mr.  Ullman 
might  abandon  altogether  the  exploded  fashion  of  giving 
operatic  entertainments  at  night ;  wre  can  all  amuse  our 
selves  so  much  better  by  daylight.  I  say  we,  deliberately ; 
for  though  the  matinees  doubtless  originated  in  a  devil 
ish  desire  to  tempt  the  weaker  sex,  yet,  when  the  wo 
man  declared  the  apple  good,  Adam  thought  he  might 
relish  it  too.  Though,  at  first,  only  the  daughters  of 
Eve  attended  the  music  o'  mornings,  the  sons  and 
grand-sons  have  of  late  been  as  numerous.  At  the 
last  matinee  there  must  have  been  a  thousand  men. 
And  not  only  fashionable  fellows  ;  not  only  young  men 
about  town,  or  vagabonds  whom  you  might  expect  to 
find  following  in  the  wake  of  woman,  or  lazily  lounging 
in  the  lobbies  of  the  Academy  by  day  as  well  as  by  night. 
I  saw  great  historians  stand  all  the  morning  in  the  par 
quet  ;  and  reverend  divines  gazing  through  their  lorg- 


The  Matindes.  29 

nettes  when  Soto  danced  ;  and  South-street  merchants 
comfortably  ensconced  in  their  boxes  during  'Change 
hoars.  All  the  beaux  were  there  of  course  :  endeavoring 
to  penetrate  the  mass  of  crinoline,  and,  for  the  sake  oi 
being  agreeable  to  one  woman,  making  themselves  dis 
agreeable  to  twenty  ;  sitting  on  the  floor  of  the  boxes 
close  between  two  chairs  occupied  by  their  female 
friends ;  peering  in  through  the  half-open  doors  of  the 
first  circle  ;  promenading  in  the  foyer,  and  stopping  at 
each  turn  before  the  long  mirrors  to  pull  up  their  collars 
and  fasten  their  cravats ;  or  Availing  around  the  entrance 
for  the  hegira.  All  the  belles  were  there,  for  they  had 
nothing  else  to  do  ;  they  wanted  to  kill  a  morning,  and 
then  they  were  so  fond  of  music ;  and  William  might 
chance  to  leave  the  office  in  time  to  stop  on  his  way  up 
town  ;  and  if  they  should  meet  Tom  as  they  appointed 
yesterday. 

The  women,  at  first,  used  to  think  themselves  alone 
and  unobserved  at  these  matinees.  And  then  you 
should  have  observed  them.  They  went  prying  around 
the  lobbies ;  they  stalked  into  the  proscenium  boxes 
without  leave ;  they  climbed  into  the  amphitheatre ; 
they  tried  the  stage-door  ;  they  were  rude  to  each  other, 
crowded  and  jostled,  and  said  naughty  words,  and 
looked  daggers,  and  I  believe  even  pinched  and  trod  on 
toes — purposely,  too :  they  certainly  tore  the  laces,  and 
sat  on  the  camels'-hair  shawls  of  their  neighbors.  They 
went  hours  before  the  time,  and  crowded  around  the 
entrance,  pounding  at  the  doors,  and  demanding  admis 
sion  so  vehemently  that  at  last  the  manager  was  obliged 
to  allow  them  access  earlier  than  at  the  time  stated  in  the 
bills ;  they  stood  immediately  in  front  of  the  private 


30  The  Vagabond. 

boxes  ;  they  took  out  chairs  from  the  same  ;  they  sat  on 
the  edges ;  and,  one  morning,  two  Brobdignagians 
nearly  smothered  Gulliver,  who  was  in  the  back  seat  of 
a  box,  by  flinging  their  shawls,  and  furs,  and  crinolines 
over  his  shoulders.  I  do  not,  of  course,  imagine  that 
any  of  my  fair  readers  were  guilty  of  these  solecisms ; 
that  any  of  them  opened  the  doors  of  secured  boxes ; 
that  they  pushed  in  the  aisles,  and  scolded  in  the  lob 
bies  ;  that  they  quarrelled  with  the  ushers,  and  berated 
the  doorkeepers ;  but  surely,  ladies,  you  must  have 
seen  the  women  who  did  these  things.  Doubtless  you 
were  as  much  annoyed  as  any  one  at  such  conduct. 
Doubtless  you  have  remarked  the  change  in  behavior 
since  more  men  have  attended  the  matinees.  Well,  was 
it  not  shocking  ?  And  to  what  do  you  attribute  the 
reformation  ?  It  can't  be  that  the  softer  sex  need  the 
refining  influence  of  ours  to  render  their  manners  bland. 
It  can't  be  that  when  our  charmers  are  alone  they  be 
have  in  this  way ;  that  all  the  graces  are  put  on  for  the 
sake  of  us ;  that  the  natural  woman  is  such  as  was  mani 
fested  at  the  first  matinees.  "  Oh !  no  ;  on  those  earlier 
occasions  it  was  not  so  fashionable  to  attend.  A  differ 
ent  class  of  women  went,  and,  of  late,  more  ladies  have 
been  present ;  and  therefore,  Mr.  Vagabond,  you  per 
ceive  a  difference.  No  impertinent  insinuations,  sir." 
"  I  assure  you,  madam,  I  did  not  intend  any  ;  you  furnish, 
of  course,  the  only  explanation  that  could  present  itself 
to  a  reasonable  mind." 

The  matinees  are  a  mystery  to  me.  What  in  heaven's 
name  the  people  go  for  I  can't  imagine.  They  can't  see 
each  other :  the  house  is  so  miserably  lighted  that  the 
best  lorgnette  only  gives  you  a  headache  to  use ;  they 


The  Matinees.  31 

don't  dress  fine,  so  you  might  as  well  walk  the  street ; 
you  can't  show  your  own  clothes,  nor  criticise  your  ac 
quaintances'  ;  very  few  men  can  get  around  to  visit ;  you 
can't  flirt  and  chatter  as  you  could  at  the  classic  Philhar 
monic  rehearsals ;  the  crowd  is  so  great  that  locomotion 
is  uncomfortable  ;  hundreds  of  the  audience  stand  dur 
ing  the  entire  performance — women  as  well  as  men.  And 
it  does  me  good  to  see  the  malicious  creatures  obliged  to 
stand.  When  I  think  how  often  I  have  had  to  get  up 
in  a  railroad  car  for  some  one  who  bounced  into  my 
place  without  as  much  as  a  "Thank  ye,"  I'm  glad  to 
observe  them  looking  weary  and  worn  out.  I  go  into  a 
private  box  on  purpose  to  let  them  see  a  man  at  his  ease, 
while  they  rest  first  on  one  leg,  and  then  on  the  other, 
like  a  chicken  at  roost.  But  why  does  all  the  world  go 
to  the  matinees  ?  I  believe  in  the  musical  taste  of  New 
York.  I  believe  in  it  very  firmly.  I  swear  by  the  ama 
teurs;  and  know  twenty  young  ladies  who  sing  well 
enough  for  prima  donnas,  besides  a  thousand  people  who 
doat  on  the  last  opera,  whatever  it  may  be ;  but  they 
can  all  go  in  the  evening;  they  do.  Why,  then,  should 
they  crowd  in  the  daytime,  when  no  place  is  secured  ? 
I  myself  am  indifferent  musical,  but  I  don't  like  opera 
well  enough  to  stand  three  hours  in  a  dark  place  with  a 
bonnet  and  feathers  stuck  right  in  my  eyes,  and  steel 
hoops  knocking  my  knees  on  every  side,  even  to  listen  to 
Laborde  or  to  look  at  Piccolomini.  I  am  not  a  regular 
habitue  of  the  matinees.  I  go  for  an  hour,  and  gaze, 
and  wonder,  and  come  away. 

There  is  but  one  way  to  account  for  the  phenomenon, 
and  that  is,  to  say  that  matinees  are  the  rage.  Every 
body  goes  because  everybody  else  goes.  Everybody 


^2  The  Vagabond. 

likes  to  be  in  a  crowd,  perceives  the  electric  influence 
there  evolved,  gets  en  rapport  with  the  music,  thinks 
better,  and  brighter,  and  faster,  talks  quicker  and 
shrewder,  feels  more  acutely,  enjoys  more  keenly. 

The  performers  themselves  are  not  unsusceptible  to 
this  magnetism ;  they  sing  and  act  better,  and  so  exert 
a  reacting  influence.  Thus  out  of  the  bitter  comes  forth 
sweetness ;  artistic  excellence  results  from  fashionable 
folly.  For  all  these  people  cannot  listen  to  the  splendid 
strains  of  passionate  music,  callous,  or  indifferent,  or  fool 
ish  though  the  majority  may  be,  without  many  of  them 
feeling  the  refining  and  ennobling  effects.  And  not  only 
the  ear  is  touched,  and  through  that  the  brain,  and 
nerve,  and  soul,  but  the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of 
life  are  gratified.  The  magnificent  theatre  crowded 
with  human  beings ;  tier  above  tier  of  heads  and  faces  ; 
the  very  obscurity  making  the  hall  look  larger  as  well  as 
dimmer ;  the  strange  effect  of  the  stage  and  the  singers 
seen  in  this  half  light ;  all  make  a  confused  sort  of  pic 
ture  on  the  retina  like  the  remembrance  of  a  dream. 
The  faces  in  the  distance  seem  unreal  and  shadowy,  the 
lights  flicker,  the  pageant  wavers,  but  remains ;  the 
restlessness  of  these  thousands  contrasted  with  their 
occasional  and  absolute  silence  to  listen  to  a  great  air 
or  a  particular  singer,  this,  too,  has  a  strange  fascination 
for  some  natures ;  this  brings  some  hither. 

For  all  is  not  nonsense  that  seems  so ;  many  and 
many  of  those  you  meet  in  society  are  not  so  shallow  as 
you  think;  many  receive  vivid  impressions  from  the 
gaiety  of  a  scene  who  you  imagine  are  absorbed  in  fri 
volity.  While  a  man  stands  paying  silly  compliments  tc 
some  little  flirt  just  out  this  season,  his  eye  takes  in  not 


The  Matinees. 


33 


only  the  fresh  ana  budding  charms  before  him,  but  all 
the  brilliancy  of  the  ball.  The  gaily-decorated  room ; 
the  lofty  walls  covered  with  mirrors  and  pictures ;  sta 
tues  peering  from  behind  the  heavy  curtains ;  flowers, 
and  frescoes,  and  gilding,  and  columns,  making  up  the 
background ;  dazzling  light  streaming  down  on  the  rest 
less  throng  ;  beautiful  women  clad  in  elegant  and  dainty 
garments  ;  gallant  men  saying  courteous  things ;  young 
forms  bearing  the  lovely  maidens  swiftly  in  the  dance  ; 
tossing  plumes,  sparkling  jewels,  subtle  perfumes ;  white 
arms,  half  exposed ;  exquisite  bosoms,  shrouded  in  deli 
cate  laces :  then  the  music  of  soft  voices  and  gentle 
tones  and  subdued  laughter,  with  some  inspiriting  strain 
from  a  distant  band ;  all  this  furnishes  an  intoxication,  a 
sort  of  delire  to  an  imaginative  nature,  that  is  not  easily 
resisted. 

Should  you  get  accustomed  to  the  sight,  enter  the 
ball-room ;  notice  the  merry  feet  of  the  dancers  as  they 
glide  swiftly  by  in  the  mazes  of  the  redowa ;  feel  your 
own  blood  tingle  as  the  robes  of  a  woman  you  admire 
are  swept  hurriedly  by,  and  the  influence  of  the  wine 
mounts  up  to  your  brain ;  catch  the  inspiration  of  the 
music  and  the  moment,  and  approach  some  fair  girl  ra 
diant  with  youth  and  beauty,  whose  eyes  beam  softly 
and  gladly  when  you  ask  her  to  join  the  dance.  Lay 
your  arm  around  the  taper  waist  that  otherwise  you 
scarce  dare  think  of,  feel  her  soft  breath  on  your  cheek, 
her  finger  clasped  in  yours ;  and  if  the  excitement  of  soci 
ety  is  not  then  quite  entrancing,  you  are  not  susceptible. 
Quicker  and  quicker  becomes  the  movement  of  the 
music ;  faster  and  faster  you  whirl  on ;  as  your  partner 
pants  with  the  rapid  motion  and  the  sympathetic  excite- 
2* 


34.  The  Vagabond. 

mcnt,  she  rests  more  closely  on  you  for  support,  and 
all  her  pulses  beat  in  unison  with  yours.  Ah,  me  !  could 
one  always  be  dancing !  Do  you  remember  the  German 
princess  who  waltzed  to  Strauss's  music  till  she  died  ? 
What  wonder  ?  And  yet  the  blues  and  the  old  fogies 
can't  understand  why  the  young  people  like  society, 
what  charm  there  is  in  dancing.  "Well,  when  our  blood 
gets  cold,  and  our  imagination  dull,  perhaps  we  shall 
wonder  too.  Thank  heaven!  that  time  is  not  come 
yet! 

The  matinee  is  not  so  great  a  mystery  after  all.    Music 
o'  mornings ;  they  say  it  will  penetrate. 


MEYERBEER. 

"  Is  it  not  strange  that  sheep's  guts  should  hale  souls 
Out  of  men's  bodies." 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

SOME  people  say  it  is  not  the  sheep's  guts,  nor  the 
women's  voices,  nor  the  music  of  "  The  Huguenots  "  that 
is  so  powerful  in  haling  our  souls,  but  the  painted  gardens 
and  the  glistening  robes,  and  the  prancing  horses,  and 
the  illuminated  barges,  and  the  crowds  of  supernumera 
ries  that  have  made  "  The  Huguenots  "  the  talk  of  the 
town.  And,  doubtless,  the  pageantry  does  its  share ; 
doubtless  very  many  who  would  never  be  attracted  to 
the  opera  by  the  sublime  strains  of  the  conjuration 
chorus,  or  the  magnificent  intensity  of  the  great  duet, 
find  the  pomp  and  circumstance  worth  seeing.  But 
among  those  who  understand  the  language  of  music, 
who  need  no  interpreter  to  explain  the  significance  of 
Raoul's  notes  or  Valentina's  song,  whose  temperament 
answers  back  to  every  sob  or  paean  of  the  tune,  there 
are  not  many  who  fail  to  find  expression  and  meaning 
in  Meyerbeer.  I  know,  indeed,  those  who  speak  of  the 
paucity  of  his  ideas ;  who  declare  he  is  remarkable  only 
for  his  learning ;  who  can  or  will  perceive  in  his  music 
none  of  the  subtile  influences  that  Verdi,  and  Rossini, 
and  Mozart  wield.  There  are  those  who  call  him  cold  ; 


36  The  Vagabond. 

who  say  he  creates  no  melodies;  who  acknowledge  nc 
inspiration  in  Giacomo  Meyerbeer.  I  do  not  understand 
this  in  people  susceptible  to  musical  impressions.  I  can 
not  conceive  of  music  more  crowded  with  thought,  more 
pregnant  with  meaning,  more  profoundly  passionate  than 
Meyerbeer's  is,  by  turns.  How  can  he  be  said  to  lack  feel 
ing,  who  wrote  the  "Robert,  toi  que  j'aime  ?"  How  can 
he  be  called  cold  to  whom  we  owe  the  "^4A,  mon  fils  ?" 
How  can  he  be  deemed  uninspired  who  penned  the 
strains  in  that  wonderful  duet  between  Raoul  and  Valen- 
tina,  where  every  passion  is  compressed  into  music,  where 
a  language  infinitely  superior  to  that  of  words,,  or  ges 
tures,  or  looks,  is  given  to  the  subtlest  and  intensest  feel 
ing  of  our  nature  ? 

But  music  is  like  mythology :  it  is  Janus-faced  ;  it  has 
one  side  for  the  multitude,  and  another  for  those  who 
penetrate  behind  the  veil.  In  the  days  of  Homer  and 
Menander,  the  fables  of  antiquity  were  all  true  for  the 
vulgar,  though  the  philosophers  saw  in  them  a  hidden 
meaning,  a  life  and  a  beauty  that  have  endured  till  now, 
when  their  religious  influence  has  been  dead  for  centuries. 
Those  who  would  might  then  discover  that  Hercules 
was  a  personification,  that  the  legend  of  Prometheus  had 
a  double  import,  that  Venus  symbolized  more  than  sen 
sual  pleasure,  and  those  who  care,  may  now  find  in  music 
a  deeper  significance,  a  profo under  interest,  than  it 
awakens  in  the  bosoms  of  most  listeners.  To  many,  an 
opera  is  a  refined  luxury,  an  artificial  pleasure,  an  aristo 
cratic  taste,  exquisite,  sensual,  and  nothing  more ;  but 
does  any  man  suppose  that  the  profound  students,  the 
great  artists,  the  poets,  the  thinkers  of  the  old  world, 
who  listen  nightly  to  the  strains  of  Rossini  and  Beetho- 


Meyerbeer.  37 

ven,  find  in  them  a  mere  sensual  titillation — a  mere 
intoxication  as  intense  and  enervating  as  that  of  wine  ? 
— that  they  go  to  the  opera  because  it  is  the  fashion  ? 
And  in  America,  how  is  it  that  despite  of  prejudice, 
despite  of  mismanagement  and  quarrels,  high  prices  and 
Astor-Place  riots,  opera,  an  exotic,  has  taken  root  in  this 
furiously  native  soil  ?  Why  is  it  that,  all  the  world  over, 
it  has  supplanted  the  drama  in  the  estimation  of  the  cul 
tivated  and  the  refined  ?  A  mere  fashion  lasts  not  so 
long  as  this;  extends  not  from  Mexico  to  St.  Peters- 
burgh,  from  Paris  to  San  Francisco.  And  the  taste  for 
the  ajnusement  is  not  confined  to  a  fashionable  class. 
Thousands  are  fascinated  by  music  who  never  clothe 
their  hands  in  the  skin  of  kid  before  they  applaud,  and 
who  listen  without  the  aid  of  opera-cloaks  and  dress- 
coats  to  assist  their  sense  of  hearing.  The  truth  is, 
music  speaks  an  universal  language :  it  speaks  to  the 
soul ;  it  is  the  form  in  which  the  feeling  of  this  age  finds 
its  fullest  and  freest  development. 

Indeed,  all  art  is  something  more  than  a  luxury :  it  has 
its  meaning  like  the  symbolism  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion.  Ignorant  or  grovelling  minds  may  worship 
the  statue  and  forget  the  saint — may  bow  at  the  shrine 
and  wonder  at  the  lamp ;  but  he  who  knows  what  the 
meaning  of  all  this  is,  sees  and  receives  another  influence. 
He  only  is  the  true  worshipper,  and  this,  too,  whether  the 
artist  feels  his  mission  or  not.  The  unworthiness  of  the 
priest  affects  not  the  validity  of  the  sacrament ;  and  the 
vanity  or  worldliaess  of  the  artist  interferes  not  mate 
rially  with  the  emotions  he  excites  in  another. 

Art,  in  other  times,  has  been  expressed  in  other  ways. 
The  old  Greeks  gave  vent  to  their  love  for  the  beautiful 


38  The  Vagabond. 

in  the  more  tangible  forms  of  architecture  and  sculpture, 
and  the  temples  and  statues  that  delighted  the  ancients 
have  never  since  been  surpassed.  In  the  middle  ages, 
it  burst  into  flower  in  painting,  and  the  gorgeous  crea 
tions  of  the  Italian  masters  were  the  result.  To-day, 
art  finds  its  development  in  music.  Our  painting  is  poor 
and  our  sculpture  is  cold,  compared  with  the  passion  and 
poetry  that  breathe  in  the  music  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury  ;  and  if  we  must  yield  the  palm  to  other  ages  in 
other  arts,  here  we  can  claim  a  super-excellence.  The 
ancients  had  no  conception  of  the  power  of  music ; 
the  moderns,  until  now,  have  been  groping  befwe  the 
dawn  of  that  day  in  whose  meridian  splendor  we  are 
basking.  Compare  the  fugues  and  the  cathedral  music 
of  two  centuries  back  with  the  harmonic  glories  ushered 
in  by  Gluck,  and  brought  to  perfection  by  Beethoven 
and  Mozart !  Compare  even  the  discoveries  of  Pales- 
trina  with  the  science  of  Meyerbeer ! 

And  if  music  culminates  to-day,  it  is  because  it  is  the 
truest  exponent  of  the  feeling  of  the  present  age.  Emo 
tions  too  subtle  for  other  embodiment,  sentiments  too 
fleeting,  passions  too  intense,  feelings  too  profound 
even  for  poetry,  are  here  all  told  ;  and  especially  do  I 
recognise  in  the  music  of  this  century  the  utterance 
of  that  feeling  which  struggles  for  expression  in  the 
deeper  literature  of  the  time — the  wild  unrest,  the 
earnestness,  the  uncertainty  of  Tennyson,  of  Carlyle, 
of  George  Sand,  of  Margaret  Fuller,  are  all  expressed  in 
the  sublime  music  of  modern  composers,  are  all  ex 
pressed  in  Meyerbeer.  The  pretty  strains  of  Auber  may 
do  for  some ;  the  passion  of  Donizetti  and  the  intensity 
of  Verdi,  perhaps,  are  the  fit  correlatives  of  the  outside 


Meyerbeer.  39 

turbulence  and  revolutionary  spirit  of  our  age  ;  the  ex 
quisite  flow  of  Rossini  and  the  divine  calm  of  Mozart 
are  soothing  and  religious;  but  only  the  awful  terror 
and  unearthly  wildness,  the  supernatural  grandeur 
and  unequalled  sublimity,  the  fierce  struggles  and  pierc 
ing  agonies  of  Meyerbeer,  combine  all  the  character 
istics  of  this  era. 

"  Robert  le  Diable  "  tells  of  the  spirit  which  breathes 
in  Goethe's  "  Faust,"  and  pervades  every  page  of  the 
earnest  literature  of  England,  France,  Germany,  and 
America — the  peering  into  forbidden  secrets,  the  dealing 
with  more  than  earthly  beings; — the  scepticism,  the 
doubt,  the  anxiety,  the  terror,  and  the  struggle.  Who 
that  has  ever  heard  the  "  Robert,  toi  que  j'aime" — that 
piercing  wail  of  a  spirit  that  is  bound — that  cry  to  man 
to  save  himself — but  has  thrilled  with  an  intense  reality 
that  made  him  forget  the  pageant  of  the  stage.  For 
my  part,  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  care  nothing  for  the  mimic 
life  there  represented  ;  the  great  genius  has  spoken  to 
an  inner  being.  The  calm  of  Alice,  the  wildness  of  the 
incantation  scene,  the  gloom  that  shrouds  Bertram  as 
with  a  garment,  and  the  humanity  of  Robert,  are  all  told 
as  no  poet  ever  told  them.  Robert  is  equal  to  Faust, 
Alice  is  greater  than  Gretchen.  They  stand  out  indi 
vidualized  as  distinctly  in  our  memories  as  the  crea 
tions  of  the  greatest  of  poets,  or  the  figures  of  the 
greatest  of  painters. 

Another  such  magnificent  subject  could  not  be  found 
as  the  strife  of  a  demon  for  his  son,  with  the  simple, 
pure  peasant  girl  of  Normandy,  and  the  struggle  of 
that  son,  beset  by  the  entreaties  of  love  and  the  seduc 
tions  of  hell !  It  is  the  history  of  every  man  ;  it  is 


40  The  Vagabond. 

the  grand  problem  of  life  interpreted  into  sound  ;  it  is 
the  very  mystery  of  being,  set  before  us. 

Then  in  "Le  Prophete"  how  vividly  do  we  see  the 
Ana-baptists !  How  wonderful  a  creation  is  Fides !  How 
natural  the  variable  Jean  of  Leyden — now  triumphant, 
now  yielding,  now  lost — a  type  again  of  man !  And 
Fides,  with  all  the  fervor  and  intensity  of  woman — wo 
man  in  her  purest,  truest,  noblest  aspect,  the  mother — 
all  compressed  into  the  "Ah,  mon  fils  /"  which  rivals 
the  "Jtobert,  toi  que  j'aime  /"  in  depth  of  pathos,  sub 
limity  of  expression,  and  intensity  of  meaning. 

These  are  the  glories,  the  marvellous  works  of 
Meyerbeer.  He  has  not  the  dramatic  feeling  of  Doni 
zetti,  nor  perhaps  the  elan  which  Italian  composers 
infuse  into  the  expression  of  earthly  passion.  He  does 
not  represent  love  as  they  do  ;  but  when  something 
more  than  human  is  to  be  told,  when  something  clear 
from  every  stain  of  human  dross  is  to  be  expressed — 
the  cry  of  a  mother  over  a  son,  or  the  appeal  of  a  wo 
man  to  her  lover  to  save  himself — Meyerbeer  is  equal 
to  the  emergency.  No  guilty  raptures,  no  Favorita, 
no  Norma,  does  he  portray;  but  the  sublime  purity 
of  an  Alice,  or  the  holy  fervor  of  a  Fides. 

I  have  not  spoken  technically  of  this  composer.  I 
leave  it  to  others  to  dilate  upon  the  means  by  which 
he  produces  his  effects:  it  is  my  task  to  treat  of 
those  effects  and  tell  how  he  influences  me.  His 
learning  and  his  science  are  great  and  manifest;  his 
combinations  are  peculiar,  and  his  method  superb, 
Others,  if  they  choose,  may  treat  of  these  ;  it  is  enough 
for  me  to  confess  his  power,  to  recognise  his  genius  ; 
for  it  is  the  truest  test  of  Meyerbeer's  glories  that  he 


Meyerbeer.  /j.1 

awakens  your  sympathies,  he  touches  your  feelings  quite 
as  truly  as  any  of  his  rivals.  He  does  not  electrify,  he 
does  not  take  you  by  storm,  but  he  catches  hold  of 
some  string  that  is  twined  close  around  the  heart ;  he 
strikes  some  nerve  that  helps  him  to  "  hale  souls  out 
of  men's  bodies." 


MATILDA   HERON. 

"  She  is  sad  and  passionate." 

King  John, 

THE  night  of  the  twenty-second  of  January  was  cold 
and  uninviting.  There  was  no  opera,  and  I  know  not  why 
I  was  anxious  to  Avitness  the  debdt  of  a  Western  actress 
at  Wallack's  theatre ;  but  it  was  fated,  and  I  sallied  forth 
into  the  snoAV.  I  sat  in  the  orchestra,  and  was  not  at  all 
crowded.  There  came  upon  the  stage  a  fine  Avoman, 
Avith  an  easy  manner,  and  Avho  spoke  two  or  three  Avords 
in  a  natural  tone.  I  was  surprised  at  the  phenomenon, 
and  attended  to  what  she  should  do  or  say  next.  Of 
course  I  Avas  amazed  at  her  daring  portrayal  of  Camille  ; 
but  Avhen  the  curtain  fell  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  I 
acknowledged  the  spell  of  genius. '  As  the  play  AATent  on 
I  became  absorbed ;  by-and-by,  eye  and  car  were  both 
touched  by  an  electricity  that  readied  brain  and  heart ; 
and  ere  the  climax,  I  had  experienced  such  a  Avrenching 
and  tightening  of  emotions,  such  a  Avhirhvind  of  feeling, 
as  made  criticism  impossible.  All  I  had  to  do  Avas  to 
give  myself  up  to  the  sway  of  the  magician,  to  be  swept 
away  by  the  torrent  of  enthusiasm  in  Avhich  the  Avhole 
audience  Avas  involved. 

I  went  again  shortly,  and  again,  and  again.  Each  time 
excitement  Avas  almost  painful.  Not  tears  spoke  the 


Matilda  Heron.  43 

depth  of  feelings  that  were  roused,  but  absolute  exhaus 
tion  declared  their  power.  It  was  not  until  familiarity 
with  the  performance  of  "  Carnille"  had  in  some  measure 
blunted  my  susceptibility  that  I  was  able  calmly  to  criti 
cise.  Seldom,  in  a  theatre,  had  my  inmost  nature  been 
so  stirred  as  by  this  new  actress.  "  Medea  "  came  next :  it 
was  not  modern  ;  I  was  prepared  to  judge  severely,  and 
by  comparison  with  the  highest  standard ;  yet,  even 
in  this  play,  I  felt  at  times  the  same  overpowering  influ 
ence,  the  same  shaking  of  nerve  and  thrilling  of  frame. 

Miss  Heron  is  emotional :  it  is  your  feelings  that  she 
rouses,  your  heart  that  she  speaks  to,  your  soul  that  she 
stirs.  The  brain,  the  intellect,  is  not  untouched  ;  but 
when  you  get  time  to  take  breath  from  your  own  sobs, 
and  wipe  your  eyes  from  the  blinding  mist  that  will  rise ; 
when  you  rest  your  ears  from  the  burden  of  those 
passionate  accents,  there  is  much  in  her  acting  that  you 
do  not  admire.  But  admire  her  or  not,  I  defy  you  to 
remain  calm.  Still,  it  is  well  to  analyse  her  remarkable 
powers. 

And  first  of  all  is  her  naturalness.  This  first  demands 
applause  from  the  most  discerning  critic,  and  ends  by 
provoking  cavils.  This  first  forces  itself  upon  your 
notice,  this  first  rivets  your  attention ;  this  is  the  great 
secret  of  her  acting — is  her  talent,  ay,  and  her  art. 
Surely  naturalness  cannot  be  decried.  And  yet  this  is 
not  only  her  great  peculiarity,  it  is,  perhaps,  her  fault. 
She  is  absolutely  too  natural.  She  portrays  a  character 
exactly  as  it  is,  not  only  without  one  touch  of  grace  not 
its  own,  but  with  every  touch  of  awkwardness  belong 
ing  to  it.  She  not  only  adds  nothing,  but  subtracts 
nothing.  She  not  only  idealizes  not,  refines  not,  elevates 


44  The  Vagabond. 

not ;  she  eliminates  nothing  of  coarse  or  displeasing ; 
she  spares  no  harrowing  thought,  no  disgusting  minutin? ; 
she  is  not  only  terrible  in  her  life-likeness,  but  at  times 
offensive.  And  yet  this  very  offensiveness  adds  to  her 
thrall  over  you :  you  are  held  in  spite  of  your  dislike, 
because  of  it.  The  vulgarity  of  the  earlier  scenes  in 
"  Camille  "  is  fearful  in  its  truthfulness,  but  effective  as 
well ;  the  repulsiveness  of  the  sick-bed  scene  is  painfully 
real.  And  here  Miss  Heron  differs  from  any  other 
actress  I  have  seen.  All  others  refine,  in  some  degree, 
either  by  throwing  a  charm  around  a  character  that  it 
cannot  really  claim,  or  by  concealing  defects  which  it 
absolutely  possesses.  Here,  too,  Miss  Heron  differs 
especially  from  the  great  French  actress,  with  whom  she 
has  sometimes  been  compared  ;  for  this  western  per 
former  has  indeed  thrust  herself  into  the  foremost  rank, 
and  is  to  be  judged  only  by  comparison  with  the  fore 
most.  As  she  is  great,  she  must  in  many  things  be  like 
her  who  is  greatest ;  but  in  her  naturalness  she  differs 
from  the  Jewess. 

Rachel's  conception  was  always  idealized,  was  alwrays 
unreal.  Her  exquisite  taste,  her  refined  intellectuality, 
made  all  things  common  and  inferior  seem  unreal  to  her; 
whatever  she  looked  upon  became  in  her  eyes  refined 
and  elevated.  And  her  execution  corresponded  Avith 
this  idea.  She  was  the  living  embodiment  of  Greek 
poetry  and  Greek  statuary ;  she  was  the  spirit  of  anti 
quity  made  manifest  in  the  flesh  ;  she  was  what  JEschylus 
and  Euripides  dreamed  of,  what  Praxiteles  fancied  ere  he 
formed.  She  was  what  educated  men  of  all  time  have 
since  imagined  the  Roman  maiden  and  the  Grecian 
queen  to  have  been,  possibly  superior  even  to  the  reality  : 


Matilda  Heron.  45 

Phaedra  could  not  have  been  more  stately  in  her  grace, 
nor  Camilla  more  severe  in  her  beauty,  than  their 
modern  representative.  Nor  was  either  wilder  in 
her  woe  or  more  terrific  in  her  wrath ;  probably  both 
Pasiphae's  daughter  and  the  Alban's  bride,  in  the 
storm  of  passion,  lost  or  lacked  some  degree  of  that 
superlative  grace  that  still  crowned  in  Rachel  the  highest 
and  fiercest  abandonment.  When  she  writhed  in  the 
agony  of  guilty  love,  or  hurled  denunciations  on  Rome, 
beyond  the  magnificent  personation  of  passion,  there 
was  the  strange  beauty  of  attitude,  the  marvellous  music 
of  intonation.  These  gratified  the  taste,  while  the  intel 
lect  was  satisfied  at  the  representation. 

But  was  not  the  heart  untouched  ?  Thrills  of  real  hor 
ror  Rachel  did  excite,  the  terrible  emotions  she  did 
sway ;  but  tears  she  could  not  reach,  tenderer  feelings 
she  could  not  evoke.  When  she  essayed  modern  life, 
she  descended  from  her  pedestal :  she  was  no  better  than 
others.  In  her  own  exalted  region  of  high  art,  she  was 
unapproachable  ;  but  it  was  as  really  unreal  as  the  pa 
laces  of  Olympus,  or  the  personations  of  the  opera. 
Grant  that  she  was  to  give  you  a  poetic  conception,  a 
realization  of  your  visions  of  Ilermione  and  Cassandra, 
and  you  must  admit  that  she  accomplished  what  she 
aimed  at ;  but  ask  if  women,  even  in  those  days,  did 
things  according  to  rule,  raged  in  such  divine  attitudes, 
or  stormed  in  such  magnificent  tones,  and  you  might  as 
well  suppose  that  their  ordinary  language  was  measured 
into  hexameters,  or  their  passions  expressed  in  odes. 

Then,  again,  Rachel  was  cold  ;  beautiful,  but  so  statue- 
like.  Now,  Miss  Heron  is  the  reverse  of  all  this :  she  is 
not  modelled,  she  is  not  stereotyped;  she  has  an  inspi- 


46  The  Vagabond. 

ration  of  the  moment.  Seeing  Rachel  once  in  a  certain 
part,  you  had  seen  her  always:  she  never  changed. 
True,  why  should  she  ?  She  had  reached  perfection  ; 
change  must  be  for  the  worse;  and  she  never  changed, 
for  better  or  worse.  But  this  new  aspirant  is  impulsive, 
fitful,  variable  ;  undecided  even.  She  changes  her  exe 
cution  too  much;  sometimes  omits  fine  touches,  slurs 
over  to-night  what  last  night  was  most  carefully  por 
trayed,  or  makes  wonderfully  vivid  what  to-morrow 
may  seem  of  less  account.  But  she  has  not  reached  the 
acme  of  her  art ;  she  is  not  sure  of  herself,  she  is  pois 
ing  her  wing ;  she  is  trying  her  strength. 

Miss  Heron  is  not  the  calm,  collected,  self-possessed 
woman  that  a  perfect  artist  is ;  but  though  she  has  more 
blemishes  for  that,  she  has  some  greater  excellences  for 
the  same  reason.  She  paints  not  with  the  exactitude  of 
a  Denner  nor  of  a  Raphael ;  but  some  touches  are  only 
the  gift  of  inspiration.  She  is  yet  a  novice,  has  much 
to  learn,  has  capabilities  undeveloped ;  but  the  true  gifts 
arc  there :  those  which  scarcely  need  cultivation,  only 
direction,  only  restraint,  only  development,  which  tran 
scend  all  efiects  of  culture,  all  results  of  art.  This 
resolves  itself  again  into  nature.  She  is  not  only  true 
to  the  nature  that  she  plays,  but  true  to  her  own  nature. 
By  looking  to  the  one  she  is  just  to  the  other.  Her  atti 
tudes  are  not  indeed  studies  of  grace,  but  they  are  easy, 
at  least,  and  sometimes  brimful  of  passion,  although  she 
never  achieves  that  wonderful  expression  of  feeling  in  her 
whole  form  that  Rachel  accomplished.  She  has  not 
the  anatomical  control  of  her  muscles  and  limbs  that  the 
Frenchwoman  possessed.  Still,  of  all  women  who  have 
ever  played  in  America,  she  ranks  next  after  Rachel  in 


Matilda  Heron.  47 

this  respect.  Then  her  voice  is  not  trained  to  cadences 
of  such  mellifluous  melody ;  she  preserves  not  the  music 
of  intonation  that  marked  the  great  tragic  queen  in  all 
the  depth  of  woe  or  fiercest  bursts  of  imprecation. 
Miss  Heron  sometimes  seems  even  to  lose  control  of  her 
vocal  organs,  and  her  elocution  is  often  far  from  perfect 
but  there  is  a  weight  of  passion  in  her  accents  that  I 
confess  I  did  not  always  find  in  Rachel's.  This  is, 
however,  only  when  expressing  intense  womanly  pas 
sion  ;  for  in  embodying  horror  and  terror  Miss  Heron 
comes  far  short  of  her  own  conception. 

She  is  not  gifted  with  the  talents  requisite  for  the 
highest  tragic  parts ;  her  imprecations  degenerate  into 
rant,  her  gestures  are  strained,  her  voice  is  utterly  in 
capable  of  the  fiercest  expression,  and  she  does  not  her 
self  feel  with  the  intensity  with  which  she  does  other 
pans.  She  fails  here  ;  of  course,  only  by  comparison  with 
the  highest ;  still  she  fails.  But  she  has  her  revenge :  if 
she  is  not  a  sybil  or  a  fury ;  if  she  plays  neither  Eume- 
nides  nor  Niobe ;  if  she  lacks  the  statuesque  majesty 
and  the  splendor  of  poetry  and  marble,  or  even  which 
we  have  been  wont  to  look  for  in  the  drama,  she  is 
more  womanly  than  any  actress  who  speaks  the  English 
tongue. 

She  is  of  this  day.  Modem  life  is  her  field ;  but  only 
because  in  portraying  modern  life  she  portrays  emotions 
common  to  humanity.  When  she  plays  Medea,  and 
begs  her  children  to  come  to  the  maternal  bosom,  "  the 
breasts  that  fed  ye,  the  heart  that  gave  ye  life,"  she  strikes 
a  chord  that  would  have  waked  an  answering  throb  in 
Grecian  mothers,  that  would  have  forced  tears  from 
them  and  wrung  their  heart-strings,  when  Rachel  would 


48  The  Vagabond. 

only  have  provoked  their  admiration.  In  the  humanity 
deeper  than  all  distinctions  of  race,  in  the  instincts  com 
mon  to  Greek  and  Puritan,  here  is  this  new  actress 
greatest.  She  moves  not  with  the  stately  step  of  Jason's 
queen,  but  she  sinks  on  her  knees  and  yearns  towards  her 
little  ones  as_  mothers  in  all  ages  would  do,  and  cries  to 
them  with  a  harrowing  tenderness  for  the  absence  of 
which  stateliness  could  never  atone. 

So  in  her  love-scenes.  Rachel  could  not  love — at 
least  on  the  stage :  she  was  too  intellectual ;  but  Miss 
Heron  is  more  of  the  woman ;  none  of  the  statue  about 
her ;  her  full  bust  beats  with  the  pulses  of  a  sensuous 
nature;  her  eye,  that  glares  not  with  the  snake-like, 
withering  power  of  Rachel,  burns  with  intense  tender 
ness,  and  is  radiant  with  an  ecstasy  of  joy  that  the  other 
knew  not  of;  her  voice,  though  it  breaks,  and  is  harsh 
or  whimpering,  yet  tells  the  true  language  of  passion ; 
its  tones  touch  nerves  that  Rachel  could  never  strike ; 
its  accents  provoke  tears,  that  none  other  can  so  won 
derfully  excite. 

So  she  has  a  field  all  her  own  ;  not  classic,  not  ideal, 
not  terrible ;  but  womanly,  passionate,  human.  As  yet 
her  studies  are  incomplete.  Continued  labor,  the  culture 
of  her  taste,  and  the  practice  of  her  profession,  will  finish 
and  polish  her  style ;  but  never  give  her  the  marvellous 
refinement  of  some,  or  the  striking  nobleness  of  others. 
She  has  her  special  traits,  wherein  she  is  super-eminent ; 
wherein  others  fall  as  far  short  of  her,  as  she  of  them. 
Her  excellence  in  these  is  surpassing,  and  in  these,  if 
she  is  wise,  will  she  trust. 


E.    H.     CHAPIN. 

"  'Tis  time  we  were  at  church." 

Taming  the  Shrew. 

I  HAVE  always  had  a  taste  for  theology.  I  read  ser 
mons  with  as  much  interest  as  poems,  study  Jeremy 
Taylor  and  the  judicious  Hooker  as  ardently  as  their 
contemporaries,  Massinger  and  Ford,  and  go  as  readily 
to  hear  Dr.  Hawks  or  Dr.  Bellows  as  I  would  to  see  a 
picture  or  play.  And  it  is  not  simply  for  the  intellectual 
gratification  that  I  read  or  listen  ;  though  I  enjoy  the 
elaborate  declamation  of  the  French  preachers,  and  love 
to  fancy  that  I  hear  Bourdaloue  or  Bossuet  delivering 
funeral  orations  in  Notre  Dame,  or  Barrow  and  Louth 
uttering  their  fine  ideas  in  nervous  English  ;  though  my 
taste  is  gratified  by  the  elegant  language  of  Mr.  Osgood, 
and  my  feelings  sometimes  stirred  by  the  eloquence  of 
the  blind  Milburn  ;  yet  I  find  another  interest  in  the 
pulpit,  a  profounder  concern,  a  different  feeling  from 
that  which  mere  dilettanteism  in  preaching  can  arouse. 
The  subject  which  should  engage  the  efforts  of  the 
preacher  is  to  me  all-absorbing :  I  read  and  listen  with 
quicker  sensibility,  with  livelier  attention,  with  more 
earnest  thoughtfulness  when  religion  is  the  theme. 

Herein  I  am  not  fashionable.  The  world  of  New 
York  goes  to  church  in  the  morning  for  the  sake  of 

3 


^o  The  Vagabond. 

respectability,  or  in  the  evening  for  the  sake  of  amuse 
ment.  It  goes  on  Sunday  to  hear  Dr.  Chapin  just  as  it 
goes  the  next  night  to  see  Miss  Heron,  for  the  sake  of 
the  sensation.  It  likes  to  criticise ;  to  censure,  or  ap 
plaud  the  poetical  quotation,  the  overdone  rhetoric,  the 
hackneyed  morality,  the  large  humanity  of  this  popular 
preacher.  It  does  not  go  to  have  doubts  allayed,  ques 
tions  settled,  spirits  cheered,  fears  dispelled ;  if  it  did,  it 
would  be  disappointed.  But  as  it  wants  only  surface 
preaching,  it  is  satisfied.  As  it  has  no  doubts,  or  thoughts, 
or  .cares,  the  shallow  tide  of  Dr.  Chapin's  oratory  floats 
it  along :  as  it  is  not  deeply  religious,  it  likes  his  ser 
mons.  I  fancy  I  see  my  readers  holding  up  their  hands 
at  this  paragraph.  Is  the  Vagabond  also  among  the 
prophets ! — the  Vagabond  talking  about  deep  religious 
feeling !  But  even  the  gayest  may  have  moments  of 
thought ;  those  most  immersed  in  the  cares  or  pleasures 
of  the  world  may  have  times  of  hankering  after  some 
thing  else ;  the  most  indifferent  may  occasionally  re 
member,  occasionally  reflect.  The  Vagabond  pretends 
to  be  no  better  than  the  rest  of  the  world :  the  Vagabond 
is  thoughtless,  indifferent,  absorbed,  it  may  be,  in  the 
materialism  of  the  age ;  but  he  and  his  readers  at  times 
feel  or  think  on  theological  topics ;  at  times  long  to 
learn  the  mystery  of  humanity,  to  solve  the  problem  of 
destiny,  to  look  into  eternity. 

I  appeal  to  my  young  readers  if  "it  is  not  so.  If  you 
have  acute  sensibilities,  warm  feelings,  quick  perceptions, 
do  not  these  very  qualities  at  times  oblige  you  to  con 
sider  religious  subjects?  Does  not  the  very  vividness 
with  which  we,  the  young,  enjoy  this  life,  does  not  the 
intensity  of  our  pleasure  itself  suggest  another  existence  ? 


E.  H.  Chapin.  51 

Does  not  the  brightness  of  life,  by  comparison,  call  up 
death  ?  Does  not  the  banquet  ever  have  the  skeleton 
at  the  board,  if  only  to  add  zest  to  the  wine  ?  Does  not 
the  beauty  of  the  fresh  garland  remind  us  how  quickly 
it  is  withered  ?  Then,  too,  all  intensity  has  a  dash  of 
something  unearthly  in  it ;  genius  is  allied  to  divinity ; 
and  this  art,  in  its  different  forms,  this  art  which  I  preach 
and  love — music,  sculpture,  poetry,  painting,  the  drama 
— has  something  elevating,  links  us  with  what  is  more 
than  human,  reaches  out  after  the  infinite.  Those  who 
are  most  susceptible  to  its  influences  must  appreciate  what 
I  say.  I  speak  not  now  of  the  thoughtful :  they,  of  course, 
ponder  on  the  most  important  of  all  concerns.  I  speak 
of  the  young  and  gay.  They,  too,  have  their  moods  of 
contemplation,  their  hours  of  soberness,  when  the  awful 
uncertainty  which  surrounds  us,  the  gloom  of  futurity, 
the  tremendous  interests  of  humanity  will  present  them 
selves.  We  recover  from  these  influences,  we  rush  more 
eagerly  to  pleasure  after  a  Lenten  abstinence ;  we  go 
more  gladly  to  the  dance  after  a  pause  in  the  music,  but 
we  must  acknowledge  the  reality  of  the  influence. 

If  we  go  to  hear  Dr.  Chapin  in  one  of  these  moods, 
what  shall  we  think  of  him?  That  he  gives  us  chaff; 
that  he  is  showy  and  unsubstantial ;  intent  on  saying  fine 
things  ;  pleased  with  the  jingle  of  his  own  sentences,  and 
delighted  with  the  glitter  of  his  own  ideas,  but  utterly 
unsatisfactory  to  an  earnest,  craving  mind.  His  fanciful 
conceits,  his  extravagant  rhetoric,  his  swelling  verbiage 
is  at  all  times  distasteful  to  a  true  culture ;  but  when 
one  goes  longing  for  truth,  for  earnestness,  for  help,  all 
this  is  offensive.  It  is  thrusting  the  man — the  speaker 
— between  you  and  God  :  it  is  mockery. 


^2  The  Vagabond. 

Dr.  Chapin  never  satisfies  me :  his  ideas  are  always 
trite,  his  treatment  commonplace,  his  philosophy  what 
you  may  learn  in  the  "  Elegant  Extracts  "  or  the  "  Eng 
lish  Reader."  Prettinesses  of  speech  are  substituted 
for  real  thought ;  sentimentality  takes  the  place  of  rea 
soning  ;  a  large-minded  charity,  a  generous  morality,  is 
held  up  as  the  host  to  which  all  must  bow  down.  But 
important  questions  he  ever  shirks.  He  may  touch  on 
fashion,  but  not  on  faith ;  he  may  dilate  on  temperance 
or  truthfulness,  but  he  discusses  not  eternity ;  he  avoids 
the  profounder  problems  that  perplex  all  thoughtful 
minds.  He  is  good-natured  and  genial,  he  lends  a  help 
ing  hand  to  every  good  work,  he  says  a  good  word  for 
every  new  enterprise,  he  preaches  about  to-day,  which 
is  all  very  well.  He  has  a  fling  at  every  folly  ;  a  sneer 
at  every  scepticism  in  which  he  does  not  himself  share ; 
a  stroke,  and  sometimes  a  right  heavy  one,  at  every 
wrong,  no  matter  how  gigantic  in  its  proportions,  or 
venerable  in  its  antiquity,  or  imposing  in  its  strength. 
He  sympathizes  rightly  or  wrongly,  but  earnestly,  with 
every  movement  which  he  believes  to  be  for  the  ame 
lioration  of  the  race.  Perhaps  his  judgment  is  wrong, 
his  head  sometimes  weak,  and  his  hand  unsteady,  but 
his  heart  is  always  right. 

But  his  attention  to  temporalities  is  too  exclusive; 
his  vision  magnifies  near  objects  so  that  distant  ones 
become  obscure ;  the  glass  of  faith  he  does  not  often 
look  through ;  the  deep  waters  he  never  treads ;  he 
never  enters  the  holy  of  holies  ;  he  never  brings  down 
a  sacred  fire.  Like  the  priests  of  Baal,  who  cut  them 
selves  with  knives  and  cried  aloud  from  morning  until 
evening,  he  labors,  but  in  vain.  He  preaches,  but  with 


E.  H.  Chapin.  53 

no  unction ;  he  ministers,  but  with  no  effect.  One  is 
never  moved  by  his  discourses  to  anything  more  than  a 
present  or  passing  sympathy.  A  lofty  influence,  an 
exalted,  pure,  religious  fervor,  is  entirely  lacking  in  his 
sermons.  Could  he  have  satisfied  the  cravings  of  poor 
young  Stirling?  Could  he  have  silenced  the  doubts 
of  Tennyson,  or  demolished  the  arguments  of  Carlyle  ? 
A  soul  struggling  for  the  light,  wrestling  with  despair 
and  anxiety,  an  "  infant  crying  in  the  night,"  would  find 
no  solace,  no  answer,  no  light  for  the  darkness,  no 
ease  for  a  troubled  mind  with  him. 

When  will  the  preachers  of  this  day  learn  how  wide 
spread  is  the  doubt  that  disturbs  the  minds  of  educated 
men  ?  Not  only  is  it  diffused  among  those  who  avow 
themselves  unbelievers,  but  among  members  of  Christian 
churches,  among  those  who  seldom  acknowledge  their 
perplexity ;  and  stranger  still,  among  those  who  appear 
immersed  in  business  or  pleasure,  there  are  many  who 
think  earnestly,  seriously,  faithfully ;  many  who  cannot 
be  satisfied  ;  who  determine  not  to  think,  to  drown 
doubts  in  the  whirl  of  excitement,  but  to  whom  these 
thoughts  return  in  spite  of  themselves,  to  whom  they 
cling  like  the  old  man  of  the  mountain  to  Sinbad, 
which  they  cannot  shake  off.  And  yet  preachers  go 
lazily  on,  telling  men  and  women  that  God  is  love,  and 
will  damn  them  all  if  they  don't  believe.  While  many, 
perhaps  a  majority  of  the  leading  literary  minds  of  this 
and  other  countries  are  tinctured  with  free-thinking 
notions,  no  effort  is  made,  or  none  commensurate  with 
the  need,  to  affect  the  age.  Missionaries  are  sent  to 
Boroboolah  Gha,  and  a  wail  is  made  over  the  Five 
Points,  but  the  mass  of  the  educated  people  of  the 


54  The  Vagabond. 

country  will  be  infidel  before  the  preachers  know 
it. 

Dr.  Chapin's  style  is  second-rate.  It  is  pretentious 
and  tawdry,  overloaded  with  ornament,  crammed  with 
fine  words  and  far-fetched  or  commonplace  figures, 
interlarded  with  Avitticisms,  and  stuck  full  of  poetical 
quotations,  which  are  recited  in  the  worst  theatrical 
manner.  The  arrangement  is  often  faulty,  the  logic 
entirely  wanting,  and  the  really  fine  things  are  fre 
quently  so  obtruded  as  to  become  offensive.  If  he 
thinks  of  anything  clever,  or  can  say  anything  cleverly, 
in  it  conies,  though  utterly  irrelevant.  There  is  a  con 
stant  aim  at  effect,  a  constant  straining  for  applause. 
The  interest  of  his  subject  never  so  far  absorbs  him  that 
he  forgets  himself;  when  he  makes  a  good  point,  lie 
stops  and  looks  around,  as  if  to  cry  "  Plaudite  nunc  /" 
and  a  rustling  is  heard  all  over  the  house.  lie 
seldom  fails  of  a  certain  effect ;  he  produces  in  a  pro 
miscuous  audience  a  kind  of  mental  titillation,  but  never 
impresses  one  soberly  or  permanently.  Though  occa 
sionally  some  strokes  come  home  to  every  one,  and 
some  flights  are  actually  successful,  his  eloquence  is,  on 
the  whole,  too  sophomoreish  to  please  either  scholars 
or  people  of  high  cultivation.  The  chastening  effect  of 
ripe  mental  culture  is  everywhere  lacking. 

His  earnest  sympathy,  his  genial  charity,  his  univer 
sal  amiability,  are  traits  that  distinguish  the  man  rather 
than  the  preacher  or  orator.  His  showy  talents  are 
the  very  ones  to  make  him  popular,  just  as  the  gaudy 
colors  of  a  picture  are  sure  to  attract  the  uneducated 
eye,  which  the  cultivated  taste  as  surely  rejects.  The 
few  effective  things  he  says  can  no  more  redeem 


E.  H.  Chapin.  55 

his  reputation  as  an  orator,  than  the  praiseworthy  cha 
racteristics  I  have  mentioned  can  make  him  a  true 
preacher.  You  leave  the  house  after  listening  to  his 
discourses,  thinking  of  the  clever  man,  not  of  the 
absorbing  theme  ;  you  have  seen  a  brilliant  display  of 
fireworks,  perhaps,  but  the  smell  and  the  smoke  remain, 
and  the  darkness  of  doubt  is  deeper  than  ever. 


NIBLO'S. 


'  The  house  is  a  respected  house." 

Measure  for  Measure. 


NIBLO'S  is  to  be  abolished  ;  the  time-honored  "  gar 
den"  must  at  last  succumb  before  the  march  of  trade  ; 
the  house  so  long  respected  in  the  memories  of  play 
goers  is  hereafter  to  be  respected  in  memory  alone. 
On  the  first  of  May,  the  theatre  must  give  way  to  the 
hotel.  I  am  sorry.  Some  of  my  pleasantest  recollections 
of  the  play-house  are  connected  with  Niblo's,  as  must 
be  those  of  every  aboriginal  New  Yorker.  Since  Vaux- 
hall  and  the  Park  theatre  disappeared,  this  has  been  the 
oldest  theatrical  landmark  on  the  west  side  of  the  town ; 
in  fact,  the  only  one  that  has  lasted  half  a  generation  • 
the  only  one  with  any  savor  of  age  about  it,  or  any  halo 
of  association,  '^was  the  first  place  of  amusement  I 
ever  visited.  I  recollect  as  well  as  if  it  were  but  yester 
day  how  I  sat  in  the  parquet,  in  my  plaid  jacket  and  cap, 
and  saw  the  green  curtain,  with  the  inexplicable  tight 
rope  coming  down  over  the  footlights  and  the  heads  of 
the  musicians.  I  remember  vividly  enough  the  loud 
music  of  the  orchestra,  and  the  impression  of  "  some 
thing  rich  and  strange"  it  made  upon  my  baby  ear; 
indeed,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  the  recollection  of  the 


Niblo's. 


57 


music  was,  for  long,  more  vivid  than  the  memory  of  the 
spectacle  that  came  after. 

But  oh  !  the  wonderful  fairy-land  into  which  I  was  let 
when  the  curtain  was  first  lifted  before  my  eyes.  Would 
you  believe  it,  'tis  fairy-land  yet,  often  and  often  to  me, 
when  the  curtain  is  lifted.  I  have  spent  more  happy 
hours  in  a  theatre  than  I  ever  did  out  of  it.  I  have 
known  as  keen  enjoyment  gazing  upon  the  fairy  world 
that  lies  beyond  that  curtain,  as  I  have  ever  known  away 
from  its  influences.  Oh  !  when  I  think  of  the  exquisite 
gratifications  afforded  me  by  the  stage ;  when  I  remem 
ber  the  domain  of  the  imagination  all  made  real,  the 
fancies  embodied,  the  poetry  incarnated  in  a  theatre  ; 
when  I  recall  the  strains  of  delicious  music,  with  all  the 
delicate  and  subtle  influences  that  music  summons  up — 
all  the  host  of  thoughts,  and  passions,  and  feelings,  and 
fancies  that  are  its  slaves  as  the  genius  was  of  Aladdin — 
the  rage  of  Norma  and  the  witchery  of  Freischutz,  the 
passion  of  Lucrezia  and  the  intrigues  of  Seville  ;  when  I 
remember,  too,  the  wit  of  merry  Beatrice  and  the 
jealousy  of  dun  Othello,  the  sublime  agony  of  the 
ancient  Phedre  and  the  wretchedness  of  our  modern 
Camille,  the  lofty  sorrow  of  Lord  Hamlot  and  the  awful 
horror  of  Macbeth — all  the  mingled  intellectual  and  sen 
sual  delights  that  I  have  received  from  the  stage — can  I 
ever  forget  my  first  night  in  a  theatre  ? 

That  was  the  vestibule  to  the  temple ;  the  initiation 
to  a  whole  realm  of  enjoyment.  Grisi's  wondrous  tones 
and  Sontag's  delicate  grace ;  Forrest's  Metamora,  Ra 
chel's  Adrienne,  Heron's  Medea,  Wallack's  Don  Caesar, 
Burton's  Dogberry,  young  Booth's  Richard,  all  these 
were  ushered  in  by  the  delights  of  that  evening.  These, 


^8  The  Vagabond. 

a  splendid  company,  stood  waiting  at  the  door  of  my 
brain  that  night,  sure,  when  once  they  had  entered,  to 
be  welcome  .visitants  for  ever.  Little  did  the  boy  who 
clapped  his  tiny  hands  at  Gabriel  Ravel's  feats,  dream 
of  the  big  crowd  of  after  pleasures  that  were  destined 
to  follow  on  the  heels  of  the  tumbler.  Little  did  those 
who  took  him  to  the  play-house  imagine  that  in  all  his 
youth  and  early  manhood  he  could  find  no  pleasures, 
either  in  study,  or  travel,  or  gayer  life  (and  all  of  these 
he  tried),  that  should  rival  those  of  the  theatre ;  plea 
sures  which  study  and  travel  and  society  fitted  him  the 
better  to  relish  and  appreciate  :  for  indeed  all  books  and 
all  culture  fit  one  the  better  to  delight  in  the  expression 
and  illustration  of  the  choicest  literature ;  in  the  render 
ing  of  the  most  exquisite  poetry ;  in  the  uttering  of  the 
greatest  tragedies  and  comedies.  All  travel  and  all  ex 
perience  make  one  a  fitter  judge  of  the  naturalness  of 
acting,  a  better  critic  of  those  representations  of  life 
and  passion,  of  those  pictures  of  men  and  women  in 
various  climes  and  times  and  in  the  varied  situations  of 
the  stage. 

Do  you  wonder,  then,  that  I  look  kindly  back  on 
Niblo's ;  that  the  house  is  to  me  a  respected  house ; 
that  I  retain  a  distinct  remembrance  of  the  very  play  that 
was  performed  on  that  eventful  night ;  that  I  recall  the 
children  dancers  who  since  then  have  grown  into  men 
and  women ;  that  I  like  to  summon  up  again  the  panto 
mime,  and  the  clown,  and  the  rope-dancing,  and  the 
balance-pole,  and  the  glittering  background,  and  the 
handsomely  painted  men  and  the  bright-eyed  women, 
and  all  the  paraphernalia  that  dazzled  my  infant  senses 
so  that  they  have  not  yet  recovered.  There  were  fire- 


Niblo's.  ^g 

works,  too,  in  the  garden  :  for  there  was  a  garden  then  ; 
and  we  went  upon  a  piazza  to  look  on,  but  these  were 
not  half  so  wonderful  to  me  as  the  pageant  within  doors. 
I  was  ever  more  interested  in  humanity  than  in  its  sur 
roundings,  although  I  confess  the  surroundings  have  an 
influence  on  me.  But  my  temperament  is  sympathetic. 
I  am  still  more  susceptible  to  the  influences  of  passion 
than  to  those  of  taste.  I  preferred  the  plot  of  the  seri 
ous  pantomime  within  to  the  brilliant  wheels  and  rockets 
out-of-doors ;  and  to-day  I  like  people  better  than  shows, 
and  a  play  better  than  a  spectacle. 

After  that  night  I  was  not  soon  let  go  again.  I  talked 
and  dreamed  of  nothing  but  the  theatre,  and  those  who 
had  charge  of  me  were  afraid  I  might  get  stage  struck, 
I  suppose,  or  crazy;  so  I  used  to  steal  away  at  nightfall, 
arid  stand  by  th'e  door  of  Niblo's  to  watch  the  people  as 
they  entered  the  wonderful  palace  of  delights.  I  was 
so  young  that  I  dared  not  go  in  alone,  but  I  formed  an 
acquaintance  with  the  doorkeeper,  and  told  him  that  I 
once  had  been  within  the  magic  precincts.  I  assured 
him  that  when  the  Ravels  returned  I  was  to  be  taken 
thither  again ;  once  in  a  season  I  might  hope  to  pene 
trate  the  mysteries  of  Melpomene.  I  got  a  copy  of 
Shakspeare,  too,  and  carried  it  under  my  arm  while  I 
stood  at  the  portals  beyond  which  I  might  not  pass ; 
and  though  I  could  scarcely  have  had  the  faintest  idea 
of  its  beauties,  I  pored  over  the  volume  constantly  at 
home,  because  it  was  a  book  of  plays.  There's  another 
habit  of  which  I  am  not  yet  cured. 

Afterwards  came  children's  theatricals,  and  all  the 
early  experience  of  Wilhelm  Meister ;  only  as  soon  as  I 
was  at  all  able  to  appreciate  good  acting,  my  delight  in 


60  The  Vagabond. 

witnessing  it  was  so  great  that  I  lost  any  desire  tc 
take  part  in  the  performance.  I  went  occasionally  to 
Niblo's  till  I  was  about  thirteen,  and  then  I  ventured 
alone.  My  memories  of  the  place  since,  are  like  those 
of  other  people,  I  suppose.  Others,  besides  me,  remem 
ber  Alboni,  and  Sontag,  and  Mo  watt,  and  Cushman : 
others  remember  the  most  delicious  singer  in  the  world^ 
as  Orsini,  on  that  night  when  Salvi  and  DeVries  were 
in  the  cast  of  "  Lucrezia  Borgia,"  and  Marini  and  Rocco 
sang  in  the  chorus  ;  that  chorus  so  superbly  given  at  the 
end  of  the  first  act,  that  the  house  nearly  rose.  I  don't 
believe  it  has  ever  been  as  well  sung  in  New  York  since. 
Others,  besides  me,  remember  Sontag  in  "Don  Pasquale," 
as  bewitching  a  Norina  as  Piccolomini  was  last  week ; 
Steffanoni  too,  storming  so  splendidly  in  the  "Favorita," 
and  Thillon,  the  fascinating  vivandibre.  Then,  later, 
there  have  been  Mrs.  Mowatt,  and  Burton,  and  Miss 
Cushman ;  Armand,  and  Mr.  Toodles,  and  Lady  Mac 
beth  ;  and  the  dancers,  the  finest  ballet  people  we  have 
ever  had  in  New  York ;  the  Sotos  in  their  prime,  the 
Roussets,  and  the  Pougauds,  and  the  Rollas. 

I  had  a  little  adventure  of  my  own  when  Mrs.  Mow 
att  was  at  Niblo's.  It  was  the  last  night  of  her  stage 
life  ;  the  house  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity  with 
a  fashionable  audience,  many  of  them  personal  friends 
of  the  lovely  woman  whose  history  all  New  Yorkers 
know ;  who  has  now  gone  back  to  grace  the  society 
that  claimed  her  for  one  of  its  brightest  ornaments  ere 
the  world  at  large  knew  of  her  talents  or  her  charms. 
The  throng  was  so  great  that  I  could  find  no  place  but 
the  passage-way  in  the  dress-circle,  and  there  I  sat  on 
the  floor.  A  fine  grey-headed  old  man  was  on  the  sofa 


Niblo's.  61 

next  to  me,  and  opened  the  conversation :  remarked  the 
immense  concourse,  and  said  it  reminded  him  of  the 
Theatre  Fran9ais  in  the  days  of  Talma.  From  the 
crowd  to  the  actress  was  a  ready  transition  ;  so  we  fell 
to  discussing  Mrs.  Mowatt.  I  said  she  was  charming 
and  clever,  and  wondered  if  her  graces  were  natural  or 
acquired.  My  acquaintance  insisted  that  they  were 
natural ;  in  fact,  he  knew  they  were  so.  Then  I  won 
dered  if  this  were  really  her  last  appearance,  and  sur 
mised  that  she  would  soon  return  to  the  stage.  "  No," 
said  my  friend,  "  she  will  be  married  in  a  month."  I 
knew  of  that  before,  and  told  him  the  day ;  but  we  did 
not  agree  about  the  date,  and  the  fine  old  grey-headed 
gentleman  thought  he  ought  to  know  best,  since  "  he 
was  her  father."  Of  course  I  admitted  the  probability 
of  his  being  correctly  informed,  and  apologized  for  the 
freedom  of  my  criticisms ;  he  declared,  however,  that 
they  had  not  been  offensive,  and  even  if  they  had 
proved  unfavorable,  that  I  was  not  to  blame.  But  I 
could  not  remember  having  been  very  censorious,  and 
we  chatted  away  all  the  evening.  I  applauded  very 
vigorously,  as  you  may  guess,  and  I  remember  going 
out  to  buy  a  bouquet.  I  was  to  be  taken  to  the  wedding, 
and  thought  I  might  as  well  secure  a  gracious  recep 
tion.  I  went  to  the  wedding  along  with  two  thousand 
other  people,  on  a  fine  day  in  June,  shortly  after,  and 
I  was  not  the  only  one  there  who  remembered  Niblo's. 
But  the  time  would  fail  me  to  recall  all  my  adventures 
at  Niblo's.  There  I  first  went  behind  the  scenes ;  it 
was  at  a  college  commencement,  and  belles  and  beaux 
were  flirting  in  the  green-room  and  over  the  trap-doors 
wl  ere  Mazulme,  the  night-owl,  was  wont  to  descend  ; 


62  The  Vagabond.  « 

benediction  was  repeated  by  the  Chancellor  right  under 
the  pulley  that  let  down  Pougaud ;  and  the  college 
dons  sat  erect  and  precise  on  the  very  spot  where  Soto's 
pas  was  most  enchanting.  There,  too,  I  have  been  with 
sweethearts  innumerable  ;  I  flirted  only  a  week  ago 
with  half-a-dozen  different  pretty  girls  at  a  Philharmonic 
rehearsal,  when  I  ought  to  have  been  listening  to  Schu 
mann  or  Schubert ;  and  I  went  one  morning  last  week 
with  a  crowd  of  children  to  see  the  circus  performances. 
I  held  a  baby  on  my  lap  while  Jack  the  Giant  Killer 
pei-fornied  his  feats  in  the  ring,  and  I  had  an  adventure 
meanwhile  quite  as  funny  as  the  one  with  Mrs.  Mowatt's 
father.  This  time  I  sat  next  a  plain  little  woman  not 
thirty  years  old,  who,  as  I  was  reading  the  programme 
aloud  to  my  charges,  said  to  me  proudly,  "  My 
husband  plays  the  giant."  After  this  advance  on  her 
part,  our  conversation  became  animated ;  my  friend 
gave  me  abundant  information  regarding  the  horses  and 
their  riders ;  furnished  me  material  enough  to  write  a 
biography  of  Dan  Rice  and  his  horse,  Excelsior ;  told 
how  much  salary  each  gets  a  Aveek,  and  who  was  to 
play  the  giantess.  When  the  tumblers  came  on  she 
pointed  out  her  husband,  a  tall,  lank,  sprightly  fellow, 
and  assured  me  he  was  all  muscle  and  bone,  every  inch 
of  him ;  and  to  be  sure  he  did  deeds  of  dreadful  note ; 
and  as  the  giant  appeared  in  the  concluding  spectacle, 
with  a  head  bigger  than  a  barrel,  she  exclaimed:  "  Now 
who'd  think  that  was  my  John  ?  I  vow  I  wouldn't 
have  knowed  him !" 

But,  alas !  all  these  days  and  nights  at  Niblo's  are 
drawing  to  a  close ;  no  more  operas  nor  pantomimes ; 
no  flirting  behind  the  scenes  nor  in  front ;  no  philhar- 


Niblo's.  63 

monic  rehearsals  nor  circus  matinees;  no  adventures 
with  fashionable  men  or  unfashionable  women,  with  the 
parents  of  distinguished  actresses  or  the  wives  of  mus 
cular  gymnasts ;  the  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away. 


FRENCH  ART  IN  NEW  YORK. 

"Painting  is  Welcome." 

Timon  of  Athens. 

FRANCE  is  the  fulcrum  that  Archimedes  wanted :  he 
who  rests  his  lever  there  can  move  the  world.  For  Paris 
sets  the  fashion  in  revolutions  as  well  as  in  dress,  stamps 
the  reputation  of  a  singer,  or  lights  the  torch  that  puts 
Europe  in  a  blaze.  French  ideas  are  at  the  basis  of  all 
that  is  distinctive  in  modern  civilization,  in  our  philoso 
phy,  our  art,  and  our  life.  Even  England,  prejudiced,  sel 
fish,  introspective,  is  influenced  by  her  lively,  magnetic 
neighbor,  and  Punch  acknowledges  that  Mr.  Bull  has  to 
take  his  time  from  Napoleon,  while  the  rest  of  trans-At 
lantic  Christendom  openly  follows  in  the  wake  of  France. 
We,  on  this  side  of  the  ocean,  are  apt  to  think  ourselves 
our  own  exemplar ;  but  lookers-on  tell  hoAV  much  New 
York  is  like  a  second  Paris  ;  how  the  life  in  public — the 
cafes,  the  showy  streets,  the  gay  population — reminds 
them  more  vividly  of  the  Boulevards  than  of  the  Strand. 
And  to  go  back  to  history,  the  truest  democrats  of  '76 
were  men  imbued  with  the  spirit  and  notions  of  French 
philosophers.  Many  of  the  founders  of  this  Union  were 
indeed  far  from  anticipating,  or  even  desiring,  the  result 
which  we  witness.  They  preferred  and  worked  to 
accomplish  a  sober,  aristocratic  form  of  government, 


French  Art  in  New  York.  65 

where  people  of  family  and  condition  should  quietly 
assume  the  lead.  But  Jefferson  established  another 
school ;  a  school  which  has  completely  and  wonderfully 
triumphed,  whose  doctrines  are  now  almost  universally 
received ;  and  those  doctrines  were  learned  at  the  feet 
of  French  Gamaliels.  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  first  pro 
claimed  the  ideas  from  which  has  sprung  our  modern 
American  republic. 

Not  only  in  philosophy,  however,  is  that  wonderful 
people  in  advance  of  the  world ;  her  civilization  is  the 
completest,  her  art  the  most  carefully  studied  of  our  day. 
It  is  that  art,  in  those  of  its  manifestations  which  have 
been  presented  to  the  metropolis  of  America,  that  I 
wish  now  to  discuss.  French  literature  is  sufficiently 
familiar  to  us.  Unfortunately,  its  more  unpleasant 
phases  are  most  conspicuous ;  still,  the  best  authors  of 
modern  France  are  widely  read  and  thoroughly  appre 
ciated  by  cultivated  Americans.  We  have  also  had 
opportunities  of  witnessing  the  culminating  glories  of 
the  French  theatre.  We  have  seen  Rachel,  the  incar 
nation  of  French  art,  we  have  studied  the  classic  and 
romantic  dramas  as  represented  by  their  common  queen ; 
but  it  is  neither  the  influence  and  character  of  the  French 
stage,  nor  of  French  literature,  but  of  French  paintings, 
upon  which  I  propose  now  to  remark. 

Fine  paintings,  master-pieces  indeed  of  art,  by  great 
Frenchmen,  have  been  at  various  times  exhibited  in  New 
York.  The  productions  of  Horace  Vernet,  of  Scheffer, 
and  of  De  la  Roche,  have  been  submitted  to  our  consi 
deration.  They  obtained  the  notice  of  those  who  loved 
pictures,  and  were  variously  criticised  in  the  journals  of 
the  day.  I  know  not,  however,  that  they  have  been 


66  The  Vagabond. 

contemplated  as  indices  to  national  character,  as  deve 
lopments  of  national  intellect.  And  yet  the  French 
mind  is  so  alive  to  the  influences  of  art,  manifests  itself 
so  frequently  through  this  medium,  acknowledges  the 
productions  of  art  as  fair  illustrations  of  the  national  or 
individual  character,  that  it  seems  fitting  we  should  thus 
consider  the  specimens  which  have  been  in  America. 
True,  the  American  mind  is,  in  the  mass,  as  yet  too  ma 
terial  to  submit  to  be  judged  in  a  similar  manner.  The 
artistic  development  of  our  character  is  not  yet  sufficient 
for  us  to  consent  that  it  should  be  taken  as  a  type  of 
ourselves ;  but  we  can  at  least  consider  others  under 
forms  Avhich  we  have  not  assumed.  It  is  fair  to  the 
French  to  contemplate  them  under  this  aspect. 

The  recent  death  of  De  la  Roche  of  course  recalls  the 
productions  of  that  master,  three  of  whose  greatest 
efforts  are  familiar  to  lovers  and  students  of  art  in  our 
midst.  These  are  his  "  Napoleon  Crossing  the  Alps," 
which  is  still  in  New  York  ;  his  "  Hemicycle  of  the 
Palace  of  Fine  Arts;"  and,  greater  than  either,  per 
haps  greater  than  any  of  his  other  works,  "  Marie  An 
toinette  before  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal."  The  pic 
tures  of  his  father-in-law,  the  great  Vernet,  are  not 
unknown  to  us.  Mr.  Bryan  has  in  his  gallery  a  little 
work  of  Vernet's,  entitled  "  Napoleon  before  the  Battle 
of  Waterloo ;"  and  the  Messrs.  Goupil  exhibited,  not  a 
great  while  ago,  a  brilliant  picture  of  his,  "  The  Breth 
ren  of  Joseph.''  Of  Scheffer's  works  it  is  only  neces 
sary  to  mention  the  "Dante  and  Beatrice,"  "The 
Temptation,"  "The  Dead  Christ,"  and  the  prints  of 
"  Christus  Consolator  "  and  "  Remunerator."  These  three 
great  masters  are  sufficiently  individualized,  and  at  the 


French  Art  in  New  York.  67 

same  time  sufficiently  marked  in  their  nationality,  to  re 
present  not  unworthily  three  important  phases  of  French 
art.  I  have  no  scruple  in  reckoning  Scheffer  among 
French  artists ;  for  though  by  birth  a  Belgian,  his  stu 
dies  and  tastes  are  essentially  French,  and  his  works  as 
emphatically  so  as  those  of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 

Some  years  ago  the  French  seemed  to  have  passed 
the  era  when  genius  culminates.  The  critical  epoch 
had  arrived  with  them ;  the  six  days  of  creation  were 
over,  and  the  Sabbath  of  rest  was  begun.  They  were 
occupied  in  perfecting  their  taste,  in  elaborating  their 
skill,  in  polishing  their  marble,  and  carving  their  stone : 
they  no  longer  cut  out  Apollos,  or  built  Notre  Dames. 
The  classic  taste  of  Racine,  and  the  Alexandrines  of 
Corneille,  reigned  supreme  on  their  stage.  Even  in 
enunciating  truths  and  doctrines  of  the  most  astound 
ing  import  to  mankind,  the  Des  Cartes  and  Voltaires 
stopped  to  polish  their  epigrams  and  chasten  their  style. 
But  the  whirlwind  of  the  revolution  has  evoked  other  ge 
niuses.  On  the  stage,  the  romantic  school  now  contends 
with  the  classic ;  in  literature,  the  burning  eloquence  of 
Madame  Dudevant,  and  the  intensity  of  modern  fiction, 
have  supplanted  the  calm  wit  and  delicate  satire  of 
La  Bruyere  and  De  Sevigne.  Something  of  the  same 
sort  may  be  seen  in  art,  the  same  struggle  in  another 
field.  Ary  Scjieffer's  studied  attitudes  and  elaborate 
grace,  his  coldness  and  sentimentality,  are  counterparts 
of  the  ancient  regime ;  the  gay  brilliancy  and  theatrical 
exaggeration  of  Vernet  ally  him  to  the  present  century 
as  well  as  to  the  past ;  but  the  profound  significance,  the 
intense  feeling,  the  passionate  expression  of  De  la  Roche, 
make  him  the  exponent  of  revolutionary  Fance. 


68  The  Vagabond 

I  confess  these  things  do  not  speak  so  plainly  from  the 
canvas  as  from  the  printed  page  or  from  the  theatre. 
The  national  mind  of  France  has  not  been  particularly 
directed  to  painting.  No  such  outburst  of  intellect  and 
genius  is  there  apparent  as  in  the  Italian  school,  or  the 
Flemish  even,  as  in  the  statues  of  Greece,  or  the  archi 
tecture  of  the  middle  ages.  Still,  he  who  looks  close 
may  find  a  meaning  even  in  the  comparatively  meaning 
less  pictures  of  France. 

Scheifer  I  cannot  admire.  His  tameness  and  his  ele 
gance  according  to  rule,  remind  me  of  Watteau  and  the 
three  unities  of  Racine.  Not  all  his  tenderness  and 
occasional  sweetness,  not  even  the  dignity  of  some  com 
positions,  and  the  religious  calm  of  others,  compensate 
for  the  frigid,  stilted  air  which  pervades  them  all — for 
the  absence  of  deep  feeling,  for  the  lack  of  inspiration, 
which  I  remark  in  all  his  works.  In  the  mild,  insipid 
countenance  of  the  Christ  of  "  The  Temptation,"  for 
instance,  or  the  very  unimpassioned  Dante  of  his  more 
famous  work,  I  can  discover  no  trace  of  genius.  Care 
fully  cultivated  talent,  correct  taste,  real  learning,  but 
no  feeling,  no  soul,  no  genius.  He  is,  I  think,  the  type 
of  the  worst  phase  of  French  art.  A  dead  Christ,  in 
deed,  he  paints;  but  let  him  attempt  no  living  one. 
No  light  burns  in  the  eyes  of  his  faces,  and  no  life  ani 
mates  his  figures.  A  chill  strikes  you  on  looking  at 
them,  like  that  you  feel  on  entering  a  vault.  He  is  the 
Delia  Cruscan  painter  of  France — the  Pope,  or  rather 
the  Cowley,  of  French  art.  Two  mites  once  outweighed 
a  treasury,  and  two  strokes  of  the  pencil  of  genius  are 
worth  a  Louvre  full  of  Schefier's  paintings. 

Vernet's  best  works  have  never  been  in  America ;  but 


French  Art  in  New  York.  69 

a  tolerable  estimate  of  his  ability  can  be  formed  from 
those  which  have.  He  holds  a  middle  place  between 
the  cold  statue  of  Scheffer  and  the  inspired  man  of 
De  la  Roche.  He  paints  out-door  life,  the  sun  of  the 
tropics,  the  sands  of  Africa,  the  gay  colors  and  fiery 
chargers  of  war ;  the  armies  of  Napoleon,  but  not  Na 
poleon  himself;  the  smoke  and  the  carnage  of  battle, 
but  not  its  poetry ;  the  Arabs  of  the  desert,  but  no  indi 
vidual  man.  A  confirmed  realist,  a  Dumas  in  painting, 
brilliant,  gorgeous,  truthful  in  outsides,  but  never  pene 
trating  beneath  them  ;  excellent  as  far  as  he  goes,  hav 
ing  a  mission,  and  doing  it  well ;  having  a  talent,  and 
not  hiding  it  in  a  napkin ;  singing  his  song,  painting  his 
picture,  but  no  more  trenching  upon  the  province  of 
the  great  artist  than  the  grasshopper  does  upon  that 
of  the  nightingale — than  the  faun  half  divine,  can  be 
said  to  assume  the  thunderbolts  of  Jupiter. 

Paul  de  la  Roche  is  the  greatest  of  all  French  paint 
ers.  He  only,  or  he  best  seems  penetrated  with  the 
spirit  of  the  wonderful  age  in  which  we  live.  He  feels 
all  its  actuality  and  all  its  ideality,  for  it  indeed  combines 
the  two ;  intensely  material,  but  finding  more  poetry  in 
matter  than  ever  was  dreamed  of  in  spirit.  De  la  Roche 
loves  outward  nature,  appreciates  beauty  of  form  and 
figure,  but  knows  that  the  highest  beauty  of  face  is  that 
of  the  soul  limned  in  feature.  His  pictures  are  learned 
in  art,  are  studies  in  drawing  and  color,  have  beauties 
enough  for  the  eye  of  the  connoisseur ;  but  more  than 
all  this,  they  speak  to  the  heart  of  the  man.  The  face 
of  his  Napoleon,  full  of  genius,  of  character,  of  life ; 
the  compression  into  eye  and  mouth  of  such  a  woi'ld 
of  meaning,  of  a  lifetime  of  history,  is  wonderful. 


jo  The  Vagabond. 

Look  into  that  face,  and  see  Marengo  and  Egypt, 
empire  and  destiny.  Then,  for  an  example  of  touch 
ing  tenderness,  of  queenly  dignity,  and  womanly  forti 
tude,  the  countenance  of  his  Marie  Antoinette  is  almost 
unparalleled.  Tears  start  unbidden  to  one's  eyes  upon 
looking  at  this  great  picture.  The  hair,  blanched  by 
sorrow,  the  heavy  eyelids,  the  proud,  yet  quivering 
mouth,  and  the  form  stately  in  misfortune — all  these 
are  inimitable.  His  selection  of  subjects,  as  well  as 
their  handling,,  proves  the  master's  mind  susceptible, 
shows  the  reflex  of  events,  the  influence  of  the  age. 
In  his  works  are  imaged  the  wild  republican  fury 
and  the  love  of  military  glory,  the  two  passions  which 
distract  France.  Here  is  mirrored  the  unrest  that 
throbs  in  George  Sand,  and  is  uttered  by  Meyerbeer 
and  Victor  Hugo.  Here  is  the  truest  exposition  on 
canvas  of  the  Marseillaise,  as  Rachel  sang  it  during  the 
days  of  February.  Here  we  find  another  voice  for  the 
spirit  that  has  overturned  thrones  and  dynasties ;  that 
has  shaken  Europe  again  and  again  to  its  centre ;  that 
volcano  of  thought  and  feeling  which  ever  and  anon 
belches  out  yet  another  eruption  to  overwhelm  more 
than  another  Pompeii.  De  la  Roche  is  modern  France. 


EDWIN  FORREST. 

"I  can't  acquit  by  wholesale,  nor  condemn." 

CHURCHILL'S  Rosciad. 

Roscius  had  a  defect  in  his  eye,  and  Churchill  found 
fault  with  Garrick ;  but  Cicero  studied  oratory  with 
Roscius  for  all  his  squint,  and  Churchill  finished  hig 
lines  by  declaring : 

"  Hence  to  thy  praises,  Garrick,  I  agree, 
And  pleased  with  Nature,  must  be  pleased  with  thee." 

Mr.  Forrest  may  or  may  not  be  a  Roscius  or  a  Gar 
rick  ;  we,  who  see  him,  can  know  of  the  others  only  by 
tradition  ;  but  we  do  know  that  the  great  masters  and 
models  of  the  stage  were  not  without  faults  and  fault 
finders  ;  so  we  need  not  be  surprised  if  there  be  those 
who  refuse  any  praise  to  one  of  the  first  tragedians  of 
our  day,  nor  even  if  there  exist  some  reason  for  the 
refusal. 

I  call  Mr.  Forrest  one  of  the  first  tragedians  of  our 
day.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  to  decry  him ;  I  know 
that  his  audiences,  though  large,  are  not  generally  com 
posed  of  cultivated  people ;  but  they  are  sometimes  as 
good  judges  of  acting  as  the  scholars  and  thinkers  who 
affect  to  despise  them.  No  acting  is  great  which  does 


72  The  Vagabond. 

not  please  more  than  a  class.  That  which  is  addressed 
to,  and  intended  solely  for  a  few,  lacks  the  truest  con 
stituent  of  greatness,  universality.  Any  work  of 
literature  or  art,  of  poetry  or  oratory,  as  well  as  the 
drama,  must,  to  produce  the  finest  effect,  appeal  to  the 
passions,  or  the  feelings  as  well  as  the  taste ;  and  passion 
brings  men  to  a  common  level.  The  profoundest  scholar, 
the  most  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  loves  and  hates, 
fears  and  exults,  just  as  the  Bowery  boy,  or  the  plebeian 
of  old  Rome.  When  passion  arrives  at  a  climax,  its 
manifestation  is  pretty  much  the  same  in  all  classes,  and 
the  gods  of  the  gallery  are  as  good  critics  of  the  great 
points  in  a  performance  as  the  wits  and  blues  of  the 
boxes.  Because  then,  Mr.  Forrest  has  triumphed  only 
or  mostly  over  audiences  not  "in  society,"  he  has 
triumphed  none  the  less  triumphantly. 

Neither  is  he  altogether  limited  in  this  regard.  Many 
a  straggler  from  the  high  places  of  fashion  finds  his 
way  into  the  Broadway ;  and  here  and  there  you  will 
meet  an  admirer  of  his,  willing  to  do  battle  in  a  good 
cause,  though  against  fearful  odds.  The  fair  sex  espe 
cially  would  be  glad  to  return  to  their  allegiance ;  for  the 
time  has  been  when  it  was  the  fashion  to  admire  For 
rest  ;  when  it  was  in  good  taste  to  take  seats  for  his  bene 
fit,  and  highly  respectable  to  applaud  him  in  Metamora, 
or  to  cry  over  his  Damon.  The  present  rage  for  staying 
away  came  in,  as  everybody  knows,  when  Macready 
went  out.  Mr.  Forrest  offended  the  fashionable  world, 
and  it  has  pouted  ever  since.  Then  he  subsequently 
flung  his  gauntlet  in  the  face  of  the  literary  world,  which 
has  never  forgiven  him.  But  these  quarrels  don't  affect 
his  acting.  His  merits  are  as  conspicuous  now  as  before 


Edwin  Forrest.  73 

the  Astor-Place  riots,  and  his  faults  are  no  more  glaring 
than  when  up-town  crowded  to  see  him  as  eagerly  as 
down-town  does  now.  Nobody  disliked  some  points  in 
Mr.  Forrest's  conduct  more  than  the  Vagabond,  but  I 
can  do  justice  to  his  great  talents  for  all  that.  In  fact,  I 
cannot  altogether  debar  myself  the  pleasure  of  witness 
ing  his  personations. 

What  especially  I  find  to  admire  in  Mr.  Forrest  is  his 
power  to  move  me.  He  has  great  faults ;  he  rants  un 
doubtedly  ;  he  roars  and  bellows  at  times  in  the  most 
unpleasant  manner ;  he  conceives  some  parts  very  differ 
ently  from  my  idea  of  them ;  and  I  never  see  him  with 
out  disapproving  of  many  things  that  he  does.  But  I 
never  see  him  without  confessing  his  ability.  He  pos 
sesses  the  true  dramatic  talent — the  power  to  make  you 
weep  and  shudder  at  his  will.  He  himself  feels  what  he 
represents.  He  is  mindful  of  the  old  Roman's  maxim : 


"  Si  vis  me  flere,  dolendum  est 
Primum  tibi." 


He  is  for  awhile  Damon,  or  Cade,  or  Spartacus.  He 
forgets  himself,  and  you  forget  him  too.  His  humanity 
excites  your  sympathy,  his  passion  strikes  an  answering 
chord  in  your  breast,  he  moves  you. 

Others  may  give  a  picture  more  critically  exact,  may 
read  with  more  of  the  elocutionist's  skill,  may  even  dis 
sect  a  part  with  a  truer  philosophy ;  but  few  will  grasp 
more  certainly  the  prominent  features  of  a  character,  or 
give  them  half  the  expression,  half  the  earnestness,  the 
likeness,  the  reality  that  he  does. 

I  was  particularly  struck  with  this  of  late.  Hamlet 
4 


74  The  Vagabond. 

has  been  played  by  several  fine  actors  within  a  ftw 
months.  It  is  especially  an  intellectual  r6le — one  which 
they  say  Mr.  Forrest  has  no  conception  of,  which  he  is 
utterly  unfit  for,  and  unable  to  render.  I  saw  Mr. 
Wallack,  Mr.  Davenport  and  Mr.  Forrest  play  the  part 
within  a  short  while  of  each  other.  Mr.  Wallack  was  a 
rhetorician,  an  actor.  He  read  beautifully,  he  threw 
himself  into  graceful  attitudes,  he  convinced  you  that 
he  was  an  accomplished  scholar  and  a  gentleman  ;  but  he- 
never  evoked  one  spark  of  sympathy  with  the  great  crea 
tion  of  Shakspeare,  he  never  let  you  forget  Mr.  Wallack, 
he  never  identified  himself  with  the  part.  Mr.  Daven 
port  played  in  a  gentlemanly,  quiet  style,  with  much 
less  elegance  than  Wallack,  and  much  more  feeling. 
I  regard  his  performance  as  decidedly  the  superior 
of  the  two.  It  showed  deeper  thought,  it  was  less 
stagey  and  tricky,  more  manly  and  natural ;  but  still 
it  was  tame,  and  at  times  uninteresting.  It  never  once 
excited  any  real  emotion  in  the  audience ;  it  never  made 
us  feel.  Mr.  Forrest's  personation,  howevei',  was  full  of 
life  and  spirit.  It  may  not  have  answered  exactly  the 
idea  of  an  intellectual  man ;  it  may  not  have  been  suffi 
ciently  refined,  sufficiently  subtile,  sufficiently  elaborate; 
but  I  could  not  see  it  without  emotion.  I  could  not  wit 
ness  his  interview  with  the  ghost,  without  terror,  or  listen 
unmoved  to  his  appeals  to  a  guilty  mother.  I  could  not 
watch  him  during  the  intense  interest  of  the  mimic  play, 
and  finally  observe  his  terrific  joy  at  the  climax,  without 
confessing  his  genius.  In  what  is  universal,  human, 
sympathetic,  Mr.  Forrest  excels. 

His  art  is  not  equal  to  that  of  some ;  but  all  the  art 
in  the  world  could  not  produce  the  effect  of  his  wild 


Edwin  Forrest.  75 

rush  upon  the  stage,  panting,  eager,  full  of  rage,  in  the 
last  scene  of  Damon.  Your  carefully-modelled  men, 
your  elocutionists  and  rhetoricians,  could  never  rival 
his  few  simple  touches  of  pathos  in  Metamora,  at  the 
death  of  his  child.  One  or  two  words  suffice  to  set  a 
whole  house  in  tears. 

This  reminds  me  that  Mr.  Forrest  is  really  and  truly 
greatest  in  his  quieter  acting.  The  horror  of  his  death 
'  scenes,  the  physical  contortions  which  excite  so  much  dis 
gust,  display  only  a  curious  talent  that  he  possesses,  are 
indeed  unnatural  and  monstrous.  The  rant  in  which  lie 
frequently  indulges,  especially  in  declamatory  roles,  is 
overdone  and  fails  of  its  effect ;  but  his  play  in  some  ten 
der  scene,  some  little  bit  of  domestic  fondling,  some  gen 
tle  adieu  to  a  friend,  has  frequently  unmanned  many  a 
stern  admirer.  It  is  common,  I  know,  to  say  that  Mr. 
Forrest  cannot  do  such  things  well,  that  he  cannot  play 
tenderly ;  but  I  think  this  a  mistake.  Who  that  recol 
lects  the  parting  with  his  wife  in  "  Damon  and  Pythias," 
or  the  family  scene  in  the  "  Gladiator,"  but  will  admit 
his  possession  of  this  excellence. 

His  tones,  too,  when  restrained,  affect  me  more  than 
in  the  very  whirlwind  of  passion.  They  seem  then 
brimful  of  pent-up  feeling,  which  is  always  more  awful 
than  these  gusts  of  unrestrained  rage.  Some  hurried 
sentence,  some  half-suppressed  exclamation,  has  often 
times  more  meaning  than  a  world  of  violence.  A  quiet 
tone  may  speak  volumes,  when  tearing  the  passion  to 
tatters,  though  it  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings, 
comes  not  near  their  hearts. 

Mr.  Forrest's  physical  qualifications  are  peculiar.  His 
form  is  massive  and  well-developed;  though  almost 


76  The  Vagabond. 

gigantic,  its  proportions  are  preserved.  His  appearance 
is  always  imposing,  and  has  frequently  a  barbaric  ma 
jesty,  suitable  to  the  parts  he  most  often  plays.  A  cer 
tain  dignity  of  demeanor  is  generally  maintained,  though 
it  must  be  remarked  that  this  is  utterly  lost  in  the 
fiercest  fits  of  Jack  Cade  and  Metamora.  His  face  is 
eminently  expressive  of  the  harsher  emotions,  and  can 
certainly  assume  the  most  horrid  aspect  of  any  human 
countenance  I  ever  gazed  upon.  He  apparently  possesses 
the  power  of  foaming  at  the  mouth,  can  swell  the  veins 
and  muscles  of  his  head  and  neck  at  will,  call  the  blood 
to  his  temples,  perspire,  laugh,  cry,  just  as  he  lists. 
His  face  can  also  at  times  express  a  vast  deal  of  rough 
tenderness,  all  the  more  touching  from  the  sterner  guise 
it  generally  wears. 

His  voice  is  tremendous  in  power,  but  not  remarkable 
for  compass.  It  descends  to  a  most  cavernous  and 
guttural  or  subter-guttural  bass,  but  contains  no  shrill 
or  tenor  notes  in  its  register.  Still,  he  can  modulate  it 
with  skill  and  effect.  It  is  at  times  terrible,  and  at 
times  touching.  His  growls  rival  those  of  the  hyena  in 
hideousness,  and  resemble  them  in  roughness ;  his  bursts 
of  passion  never  fail  for  lack  of  force,  and  are  often 
inexpressibly  fine.  He  can  give  vent  to  all  the  sterner 
emotions  without  words.  Of  inarticulate  sounds  he  has 
a  whole  vocabulary  at  his  command ;  one,  too,  under 
stood  by  all. 

He  has  studied,  too ;  but  rather  the  execution  than 
the  conception  of  his  parts.  He  is  not  an  intellectual 
player  ;  he  is  rough,  he  is  coarse,  but  withal  he  is  great, 
he  is  human.  Shall  we,  then,  because  of  his  faults,  debar 
ourselves  from  witnessing  his  excellences  ?  Says  Horace : 


Edwin  Forrest.  77 

"  Ille  poeta  qui  pectus  inanitus  angit, 
Irritat,  mulcet,  falsis  terroribus  implet." 

According  to  this  rule,  Forrest  has  the  true  poetic  fire, 
the  real  inspiration  of  genius — that  rarest  of  gifts. 
Any  of  us  can  acquire  scholarship :  genius  never  is  ac 
quired.  A  Wallack  is  the  product  of  the  schools :  a 
Forrest  is  never  made.  But  he  is  adopted  by  the  mil 
lion  ;  he  is  the  pet  of  the  masses ;  and  those  who 
belong  to  the  ten  thousand  will  not  admire  him. 

"  So  much  they  scorn  the  crowd,  that  if  the  throng 
By  chance  go  right,  they  purposely  go  wrong." 


LA  GRANGE. 

"Nightly  she  sings." 

Romeo  and  Juliet, 

LA  GRANGE  is  an' artist  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word  ; 
she  ib  devoted  to  her  art.  None  of  the  lyric  queens 
who  at  different  times  have  visited  America  ever 
equalled  her  in  this  respect.  Her  own  fame,  and  what 
to  a  woman  is  more,  her  own  appearance,  are  always 
made  secondary  to  the  interests  of  music.  Thus,  she 
often  sings  a  part  manifestly  and  utterly  unsuited  to 
her  ability,  because,  if  she  refused,  the  opera  could  not 
be  given.  Thus,  she  plays  in  "  La  Spin,"  where  her 
person  is  entirely  disguised,  and  sacrifices  her  looks  in 
"  Le  Prophete,"  so  that  the  most  ardent  admirer  can 
not  extol  her  charms.  Thus,  for  the  sake  of  a  new 
composer,  or  a  new  artist,  she  is  always  ready  to  be 
come  less  prominent  before  the  public.  True,  her 
gauge  has  been  taken,  her  name  is  mad#,  her  position 
is  ascertained  and  appreciated ;  she  can  lose  nothing 
in  reality  by  this  obliging  spirit ;  but,  nevertheless, 
prima  donnas  are  notoriously  the  most  capricious  and 
exacting,  the  vainest  of  God's  creatures  ;  and  when  one 
of  this  most  petted  and  most  spoiled  class  possesses 
some  of  the  worthiest  and  noblest  attributes  of  woman, 
and  manifests  them  in  her  art,  it  is  a  wonder  worth 
chronicling. 


La  Grange.  79 

This  utter  abnegation  of  self  is  rare  among  any, 
among  all  artists.  Heart-burnings  and  squabbles  are 
common  in  schools  of  painting  and  in  cliques  of  littera 
teurs,  and  disgrace  people  of  talent  all  the  world  over  ; 
but  especially  is  this  true  of  musicians.  Have  AVC,  New 
Yorkers,  not  had  sad  experience  of  their  trifling  vani 
ties  and  ridiculous  rivalries  ?  Does  not  the  cause  of 
music  languish  because  of  the  soprano's  Avhims  and  the 
contralto's  spite  ?  because  the  tenor  quarrels  with  the 
bass,  and  the  orchestra  is  not  of  the 'same  politics  with 
the  chorus  ?  All  honor,  then,  to  La  Grange,  who  is  ab 
solutely  religious  in  her  devotion  to  art !  I  really  con 
sider  the  dedication  of  all  her  faculties  and  time  to  this 
one  purpose  as  approaching  the  heroic.  She  has  done 
raore  to  elevate  art  and  its  consideration  among  Ameri 
cans,  than  any  artist  who  has  ever  visited  us.  She  has 
shown  us  that  it  may  be  made  the  object  of  a  lifetime ; 
that  its  professors  may  be  pure,  and  lovely,  and  of  good 
report ;  that  they  may  be  people  of  education,  and 
taste,  and  breeding.  She  exemplifies  the  refining  and 
exalting  influence  that  the  prosecution  of  such  studies 
should  have.  She  makes  us  recognise  the  legitimate 
object  and  effect  of  art.  She  realizes  the  desire  and  be 
lief  of  great  European  writers  and  thinkers,  who  ascribe 
to  art  an  influence  over  life,  a  real  and  tangible  influence, 
extending  beyond  emotions  to  purposes  and  deeds. 

But  apart  from  the  general  character  of  this  fine 
artist,  she  has  individual  and  particular  traits  to  be 
discussed.  And  first  of  all  is  her  earnestness ;  a 
faculty  of  throwing  all  her  energies  into  the  work  in 
hand.  Whether  she  sings  in  "  Guillaume  Tell"  an  en 
tirely  secondary  part,  or  in  "  Norina,"  where  nearly  the 


8o  The  Vagabond. 

whole  opera  falls  to  her  share,  'tis  all  the  same.  Whether 
she  is  subordinate  to  the  composer,  or  assists  at  the  debut 
of  a  second-rate  contralto  or  a  spunky  tenor,  she  shows 
the  same  alacrity  to  aid  another,  the  same  anxiety  to 
do  well  whatsoever  her  hands  find  to  do.  Her  talent  is 
manifest,  however,  in  this :  others  might  be  as  desirous 
as  she  to  do  well,  and  yet  not  succeed.  Now  it  is  im 
possible  to  hear  La  Grange  in  anything  and  not  receive 
some  pleasure.  The  sparkling  brilliancy  of  Rossini,  the 
magnificent  pathos  of  Meyerbeer,  and  the  eternal  fresh 
ness  of  Mozart,  are  all  delightfully  rendered.  To  be 
sure,  she,  as  every  one  else,  has  her  specialties.  There 
are  different  degrees  of  success  meted  out  to  her  in  dif 
ferent  rdles.  Her  Lucia  is  admirable,  but  her  Norma  to 
me  is  painful ;  however,  she  always  does  her  best,  and  al 
ways  aifords  some  pleasure.  Versatility  is  a  remarkable 
peculiarity  of  her  talent.  I  have  heard  her  in  every 
opera  she  has  sung  in  America,  from  the  "  Barber  of 
Seville,"  at  Niblo's,  where  she  first  exhibited  her  mar 
vellous  powers  of  vocalization  to  an  American  audi 
ence,  to  the  "Trovatore"  of  last  week,  in  which  she  has 
performed  perhaps  forty  times  at  the  Academy.  No 
thing  could  possibly  be  greater  than  the  difference  in 
style  and  method  between  Verdi  and  Rossini,  between 
"II  Barbiere"  and  "II  Trovatore" — the  one  elaborate 
and  finished,  exquisite  in  ornament  and  delicious  in 
melody;  the  other,  dramatic,  wild,  passionate.  Rosina 
is  arch  and  captivating,  Leonora  always  sad  and  splen 
did  ;  yet  I  know  not  in  which  La  Grange  excels.  In  the 
one,  her  great  dramatic  talent  is  displayed ;  in  the 
other,  her  marvellous  execution ;  in  both,  her  fidelity 
to  the  spirit  of  the  composer. 


La  Grange.  81 

This  leads  me  to  speak  of  her  great  powers  of  inter 
pretation.  It  is  these  which  make  her  more  than  a  vo 
calist,  which  elevate  her  to  the  rank  of  a  great  lyric 
artist.  Music,  and  especially  opera,  is  more  than  sweet 
sounds ;  it  is  the  expression  of  the  subtlest  and  loftiest 
sentiment,  the  rendering  of  the  profoundest  and  in- 
tensest  passion.  More  completely  than  painting  or  even 
poetry,  does  it  catch  and  cage  the  most  refined  emotions 
of  the  human  soul :  it  gives  an  utterance  to  the  inner 
most  yearnings  of  our  nature,  and  wreaks  upon  expres 
sion  the  most  terrific  outbursts  of  feeling  of  which  we 
are  capable.  It  is  one  thing  to  sing  mechanically  the 
notes  of  a  composer ;  it  is  quite  another  and  different 
matter  to  understand  and  appreciate,  to  embody  the 
meaning  of  a  great  soul  like  Beethoven  or  Mozart  ;  it 
needs  a  sympathizing  greatness  in  the  artist  to  translate 
Meyerbeer.  One  must  seize  the  thought  of  the  master, 
one  must  feel  it  in  all  its  depth  and  force,  before  he  can 
interpret  it  to  the  hearer.  This  La  Grange  does.  Other 
great  singers  have  the  passion  that  makes  them  feel 
Italian  music,  but  are  capable  of  nothing  more  or  else. 
La  Grange  is  not  of  an  enthusiastic  nature,  and  for  that 
reason  does  not  sing  Norma  or  Lucrezia  as  Grisi  did,  but 
she  makes  music,  such  as  the  composer  intended  ;  she 
interprets  the  feeling  or  the  thought  that  prompted  every 
note ;  so  her  greatness  is  really  more  apparent  in  an 
opera  that  contains  more  than  passion.  New  Yorkers 
like  only  music  that  expresses  passion.  The  stormy 
interest  of  Verdi,  the  dramatic  splendor  of  Donizetti, 
and.  the  tender  sweetness  of  Bellini,  only  are  appreci 
ated.  But  though  these  are  great,  they  are  not  all.  The 
wild  unearthly  grotesqueness  of  Von  Weber,  the  charm 


82  The  Vagabond. 

of  Mozart,  and  the  splendid  science  of  Meyerbeer  are 
equally  worthy  of  study.  And  all  these  La  Grange 
expresses  worthily. 

I  think  her  essentially  French  in  feeling  and  in  her  art. 
She  frequently  reminds  me  of  Rachel,  and  in  many 
things  is  not  unworthy  of  a  comparison  with  that 
magnificent  and  marvellous  artist.  Neither  has  one  of 
those  passionate,  impulsive  natures  like  Ristori  or  Sid- 
dons,  who  feel  their  parts  so  intensely.  Mrs.  Siddons 
was  said  to  sob  for  an  hour  after  playing  one  of  her 
great  characters,  and  Talma  had  to  be  wrapped  in  a 
cloak  and  carried  from  the  theatre.  Rachel  and  La 
Grange  are  never  carried  away  by  a  divine  enthusiasm, 
never  forget  themselves,  always  know  what  they  are 
about  and  do  it.  Nobody  admires  Rachel  more  than  I; 
none  was  more  alive  to  the  beauties  of  her  acting, 
more  keenly  susceptible  to  its  effects.  I  have  shud 
dered  at  the  death  scene  of  Adrienne,  and  been  unwil 
ling  to  speak  for  an  hour  after  witnessing  Camille.  I 
have  been  awe-struck  by  the  transformation  of  Pauline, 
and  the  "  J^aime  /"  of  Phedre  still  rings  in  my  ears ; 
and  yet  I  think  Rachel  has  no  genius.  It  was  talent  as 
marvellous  as  any  genius  ;  it  was  art  such  as  I  believe 
the  world  never  saw  before ;  but  it  was  art. 

So  is  it  in  some  degree  with  La  Grange.  She  has  not 
attained  (who  but  Rachel  can  attain  ?)  that  prodigious 
power  of  representing  passion.  She  gives  an  entire 
character  admirably ;  better  than  the  passionate  Steffa- 
nones  and  Parodis ;  but  when  the  intense  moment  comes, 
she  lacks  the  elan.  Her  Norma  and  her  Lucrezia  never 
move  me ;  I  admire  only.  Her  Semiramide  makes 
me  regret  Grisi.  Only  twice  have  I  known  her  seem 


La  Grange.  83 

inspired :  in  the  last  act  of  "  Ernani,"  when  she  snatches 
the  dagger  from  the  hand  of  Gomez,  and  cries  out  in 
an  agony  of  terror ;  and  in  the  coronation  scene  of  "  Le 
Prophete"  her  entire  acting  and  singing  are  electric. 
But  her  Norma  is  cold ;  the  effort  to  work  herself  up 
is  tremendous,  but  apparent;  the  effect  is  wonderful 
with  her  means,  but  the  means  are  inadequate ;  she  is 
physically  incapable  of  doing  or  looking  the  part.  So 
in  "  Semiramide."  She  sings  the  floi'id  music  incompara 
bly,  but  the  grand  scenes  are  unequal ;  you  feel  that  it 
is  acting ;  you  remember  the  royal  dignity  and  mag 
nificent  horror  of  Grisi,  and  La  Grange  is  tame  by  com 
parison.  Again,  I  say,  in  the  general  and  complete 
representation  of  character,  La  Grange  is  fine,  is  great ; 
but  at  the  tremendous  moments  of  the  grandest  parts 
she  fails.  From  this  remark  must  ever  be  excepted  her 
Fides.  The  part  I  regard  as  equal  in  grandeur  of  con 
ception  to  any  on  the  lyric  stage ;  and  La  Grange's 
rendering  is  quite  equal  to  the  composer's  idea.  The 
intensity  here  is,  however,  of  another  sort  from  that 
of  "Norma"  or  " La  Favorita."  Yet  one  scene  equals 
anything  in  those  operas,  and  the  music  of  the  "Ah, 
mon  fils"  is  sublime.  I  don't  wonder  that  Meyer 
beer  would  not  allow  the  opera  to  be  performed  until  La 
Grange  could  be  engaged  to  sing  it.  I  was  at  the  Academy 
last  winter,  with  some  friends  who  cared  not  for  music, 
and  ridiculed  my  rhapsodies.  They  laughed  and  talked 
through  half  the  opera ;  but  the  first  notes  of  the  "  Ah, 
monfils^  hushed  them,  and  when  I  turned  round  at  its 
chpse,  they  were  in  tears. 

It  is  time,  however,  for  me  to  speak  more  particularly 
of  her  singing.     This  has  been  so  often  and  so  admira- 


84  The   Vagabond. 

bly  discussed  that  the  attempt  Avill  be  almost  a  work  of 
supererogation  in  me.  Nature  has  not  gifted  her  so 
lavishly  as  she  has  many  of  the  great  queens  of  song ; 
La  Grange  has  no  wonderful  sweetness  of  voice,  no  mar 
vellous  volume,  and  I  have  even  fancied  that  she  some 
times  sang  sharp.  Neither  is  her  voice  at  all  sympathetic. 
It  is,  however,  flexible  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  and 
for  compass  absolutely  unsurpassed.  It  is  a  mezzo  so 
prano  of  very  delicate  quality,  somewhat  worn,  but 
clear  as  a  bird's.  For  cultivation,  it  is  unequalled  in 
the  world ;  certainly  no  artist  living  can  compete  with 
La  Grange  in  execution.  Her  facility  in  the  performance 
of  musical  difficulties  is  little  less  than  miraculous,  and 
stamps  her  unrivalled.  Several  songs,  written  expressly 
for  her,  would  puzzle  any  prima  donna  in  Europe — even 
Bosio  or  Cruvelli,  probably  the  most  finished  singers  liv 
ing,  after  La  Grange.  Thus  the  same  qualities  are  appa 
rent  in  her  vocalism  as  in  her  acting ;  the  same  perfection 
of  manner  and  method,  the  same  scrupulous  attention  to 
minutiae,  the  same  exquisite  taste,  the  same  feeling  for 
her  art. 

It  seems  almost  superfluous  to  speak  of  La  Grange's 
taste  in  dressing,  which  is  at  once  correct,  scrupulous, 
and  superb  ;  witness  Linda,  Fides,  and  Lucia.  Her 
manners  are  those  of  a  refined  gentlewoman.  Her 
attention  to  stage  business,  her  graceful  and  modest 
reception  of  applause,  her  undeviating  fidelity  to  her 
engagements,  are  all  known  to  New  York,  and  appre 
ciated.  No  artist  was  ever  more  beloved,  none  ever 
earned  her  laurels  more  fairly,  or  wore  them  more 
gracefully. 


"THE  WORLD'S  OWN." 

"  The  play's  the  thing." 

Hamlet, 

"  LEONORE,  or  the  World's  Own ;"  is  a  tragedy  in  five 
acts,  by  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  of  which  the  plot  is 
as  follows :  An  Italian  peasant  girl,  guiltily  in  love  with 
a  stranger  nobleman,  is  deserted  by  him,  but  follows 
and  finds  him  with  his  wife  and  child ;  she  is  repulsed 
cruelly  and  coarsely,  and  devotes  her  life  to  revenge. 
To  accomplish  this,  she  becomes  the  mistress  of  her 
sovereign,  plots  and  obtains  her  lover's  ruin,  and  finally, 
glutted  with  vengeance,  is  overcome  with  remorse,  and 
kills  herself. 

This  production  has  been  the  target  of  much  bitter 
criticism  and  unmerited  censure.  It  has  been  called 
immoral  in  tendency,  unnatural  and  improbable  in  plot 
and  incident,  monstrous  in  character,  and  utterly  unin 
teresting.  Yet  it  is  the  fruit  of  long  and  laborious 
effort  by  a  fine  mind,  had  been  subjected  previous  to  its 
performance  to  some  of  the  best  cultured  intellects  of 
the  country,  and  to  some  of  those  best  calculated  to 
judge  of,  its  fitness  for  the  stage.  It  is  to  be  presumed 
that  the  objections  which  are  now  alleged  against  it,  if 
they  have  any  foundation,  were  at  least  considered 
before  it  was  presented  to  the  public. 

"  The  World's  Own  "  is  pronounced  by  some  immoral, 


86  The  Vagabond. 

because  its  story  is  one  of  seduction,  because  the 
heroine  is  a  murderess  and  the  mistress  of  a  prince. 
But  if  the  wrongs  of  woman  and  her  revenge  are  to  be 
excluded  from  the  drama,  a  new  canon  of  criticism 
must  be  invented  to  accomplish  it.  The  same  strictures 
can  be  applied  to  the  masterpieces  of  literature  in 
every  age  and  country.  Lady  Macbeth  is  a  hideous 
portraiture  in  some  respects,  and  quite  as  unnatural 
in  her  wickedness  as  Leonore ;  Cleopatra  is  as  voluptu 
ous,  Beatrice  di  Cenci  as  revengeful  as  Mrs.  Howe's 
heroine.  The  great  tragedies  of  antiquity,  which  have 
for  three  thousand  years  extorted  the  admiration  and 
enlisted  the  sympathies  of  the  learned,  turn  on  plots  as 
objectionable  as  this  of  "  The  World's  Own  :"  represent 
passions  quite  as  fierce  and  implacable.  What  is  the 
theme  of  "  Phaedra,"  of  the  "  Medea,"  either  of  Euripides 
or  of  Seneca;  or  inmodei-n  literature,  of  the  "Myrrha" 
of  Alfieri,  the  "Andromaque"  of  Racine,  or  the  "An- 
gelo  "  of  Victor  Hugo,  but  the  story  of  spurned  and  in 
jured  women,  of  infuriated,  erring,  exceptional  beings? 
The  greatest  poems  and  plays  in  every  literature  must 
be  tabooed,  if  dramatists  are  debarred  from  selecting 
topics  that  treat  of  crime.  Besides,  the  tragic  stage 
only  aims  at  representing  passion ;  it  does  not  hold  up 
its  portraitures  as  worthy  of  imitation.  Mrs.  Howe 
does  not  offer  Leonore  as  a  model  for  the  women 
who  witness  her  play ;  she  gives  a  superb  creation ;  a 
truthful  representation  of  the  fury  of  an  Italian  woman, 
no  more  immoral  than  a  picture  of  the  Crucifixion 
is  immoral  because  it  represents  wickedness  triumphant, 
or  than  the  description  of  Satan  in  "  Paradise  Lost." 
As  to  naturnlness  and  improbability,  if  Mrs.  Howe 


The  World's  Own.  87 

sins  here,  she  sins  again  in  good  company.  The  same 
names  already  mentioned  might  be  adduced  again  in 
her  support ;  the  poets  who  invented  the  horrid  stories 
that  have  always  been  favorites  on  both  the  ancient  and 
modern  stage,  that  are  the  staple  of  the  classic  and  the 
romantic  drama,  are  in  the  same  category.  Is  "  The 
World's  Own  "  more  improbable  than  "  Lear,"  or  more 
unnatural  than  "  Othello  ?"  Will  it  compare  in  these  re 
spects  with  the  "  Wallenstein  "  of  Schiller,  or  the  "  Re 
morse  "  of  Coleridge,  with  the  heaped  up  impossibilities 
of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  or  the  inventions  of  Scribe 
in  the  modern  French  theatre  ?  Yet  all  these  works  are 
pronounced  admirable  in  their  degree;  many  of  them, 
and  those  the  most  unlike  ordinary  life,  not  only  retain 
possession  of  the  stage,  but  invariably  attract  crowded 
audiences.  The  truth  is,  this  new  play  is  no  more  of  a 
sensation*piece  than  any  great  tragedy  that  ever  was 
written.  Is  it  supposed  that  men  now  for  the  first 
time  weep  or  shudder  over  intense  scenes  or  harrowing 
pages?  The  crowrds  that  filled  the  Grecian  amphithea 
tre  when  the  dramas  of  JEschylus  were  performed, 
were  quite  as  eager  as  those  that  throng  Wallack's 
boxes  and  parquet.  Children  died  of  fright,  women 
miscarried,  and  whole  audiences  were  subdued  at  the 
representation  of  Clytemnestra  and  Orestes — sensation- 
characters,  which  doubtless  were  decried  in  the  circles 
of  Athens  as  too  intense,  as  unnatural  and  immoral. 

If  the  portraiture  of  passion  is  immoral ;  if  the  dis 
play  of  its  effects  is  improper ;  if  the  selection  of  events 
Mich  as  history  is  filled  with;  if  the  development  of 
characters  like  Lucretia  Borgia,  like  Catharine  de 
Medicis  or  Semiramis,  is  unnatural;  if  the  working- 


88  The  Vagabond. 

out  of  a  plot  as  truthful  as  the  stories  of  Messalina,  of 
Charlotte  Corday,  of  Catharine  of  Russia,  of  Olyinpe 
de  Gourges,  of  Mrs.  Cunningham,  of  Polly  Bodine,  ia 
improbable  and  unnatural,  then  "  The  World's  Own  "  is 
improbable,  is  unnatural,  is  immoral.  But  censure  that 
applies  to  Mrs.  Howe  must  reach  the  drama  itself;  if 
she  is  wrong,  the  stage  is  wrong;  human  nature  is 
untrue  to  itself;  its  tastes  have  never  been  correct; 
genius  has  always  been  distorted;  plays  have  always 
been  written  to  pander  to  a  vicious  tendency;  the 
inclination  implanted  by  the  Creator  in  us  all  to  delight 
in  the  theatre  is  also  wrong;  the  poets,  the  artists,  the 
dramatists  of  all  ages  and  countries  have  erred  in  por 
traying  highly  wrought  scenes ;  the  whole  race  that  has 
admired  their  productions  is  to  be  blamed. 

Faults  the  play  has,  like  all  human  productions ;  unity 
is  lacking,  incidents  are  intruded  which  certaiftly  might 
have  been  omitted,  characters  come  and  go  that  at 
least  delay  the  development  of  the  plot.  Some  of  the 
ideas,  especially  towards  the  conclusion,  are  not  new,  or 
fine ;  the  gipsy,  the  secret  tribunal,  and  the  child  stealing, 
though  they  furnish  occasions  for  much  good  writing, 
contribute  not  materially  to  the  progress  of  the  story  ; 
but  how  many  such  faults  may  be  found  even  in  the  dra 
mas  of  him  who  might  have  blotted  a  thousand  lines  with 
justice,  and  yet  whom  we  would  not  wish  to  have  blotted 
one.  The  action  of  every  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays 
is  obstructed  by  scenes  and  characters  that  no  one 
would  be  willing  to  lose.  How  does  Mercutio  assist  in 
the  development  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  ?"  How  does 
the  advice  to  the  players  in  "Hamlet''  contribute  to  the 
discovery  of  Gertrude's  tguilt  ?  If  "  The  World's  Own  " 


The  World's  Own.  89 

is  to  be  judged  by  the  rules  of  the  French  stage,  every 
thing  to  be  eliminated  that  does  not  manifestly  aid  the 
progress  of  the  piece,  there  are  portions  which  need 
emendation.  And  I  confess  I  like  the  French  doctrine 
when  applied  to  new  writers.  Those  who  have  now  to 
make  our  plays  may  as  well  conform  to  these  rules  ;  may 
as  well  introduce  no  extraneous  matter  for  representa 
tion  at  least.  What  is  suitable  for  the  closet,  what  may 
there  afford  exquisite  delight,  is  often  absolutely  unwel 
come  on  the  stage.  In  this  light,  then,  the  "  The  World's 
Own  "  lacks  the  requisite  unity  in  the  concluding  part. 

But  there  are  other  matters  worthy  of  commendation : 
the  situations  are  some  of  them  surpassingly  fine ;  the 
meeting  of  Leonore  with  her  betrayer  and  his  wife  and 
child  is  admirably  managed,  is  most  effective  on  the 
stage,  and  gives  occasion  for  some  nervous  writing. 
The  jeering  of  the  peasant  companions  is  also  fine,  and 
reminds  me  of  the  railing  at  Gretchen,  in  "  Faust ;" 
yet  is  not  sufficiently  like  to  suggest  the  charge  of 
plagiarism.  The  scene  between  Leonore  and  the  prince 
is  masterly  both  in  conception  and  treatment ;  and 
though  we  may  deny  the  merit  of  naturalness  to  the 
masked  interview,  it  is  impossible  not  to  acknowledge 
its  effectiveness  in  a  dramatic  light. 

In  characters  strongly  marked  and  interesting,  the 
new  play  is  deficient.  Lothair  is  common-place  ;  Ed 
ward  almost  insipid  ;  the  wife  not  sufficiently  prominent 
to  awaken  much  feeling,  although  the  sketch  is  carefully 
drawn ;  as  is  also  that  of  the  malignant  little  peasant  in 
the  second  act.  But  there  is  character  enough  in  Leo 
nore  herself;  and  I  am  not  so  sure  but  that  it  is  better 
thus  to  concentrate  the  interest  in  one,  than  to  scatter 


QO  The   Vagabond. 

it  upon  a  dozen.  Certainly  when  we  are  to  have  a 
woman  of  surpassing  genius  to  play  the  heroine,  I  pre 
fer  to  be  absorbed  in  her.  Leonore  is  a  great  creation : 
it  is  original,  it  is  slowly  developed,  assumes  many 
phases,  but  under  each  retains  the  distinctive  features 
— the  Italian  passion,  whether  manifested  in  love  or 
hate,  the  intensity  whether  of  remorse  or  anxiety, 
the  same  fierce  soul  beaming  out  in  the  raptures  of 
the  first  act,  or  the  sardonic  exultation  of  the  fourth. 
I  regard  the  character  of  Leonore  a  triumph,  and  as 
such  sufficient  alone  to  stamp  the  play.  The  delicious' 
lover  of  the  opening  scenes ;  the  startled  girl  waking 
from  her  dream  to  the  realities  of  desertion  and  igno 
miny,  the  woman  eager  as  Evangeline  after  Gabriel, 
but  metamorphosed  into  a  fiend  when  she  is  spurned;  the 
terrific  portraiture  of  the  prince's  mistress,  and  the  proud 
Ate-like  creature  of  the  close,  the  very  goddess  of  evil, 
fallen  yet  unmoved,  till  recollections  of  early  purity  are 
evoked,  and  then  the  stormy  remorseful  woman — surely 
these  constitute  a  great  character,  a  great  work  of  art. 

The  language  is  throughout  the  play  exquisitely  felici 
tous  ;  the  rhythm  melodic  and  constantly  preserved ;  the 
images  charming,  and  sometimes  spirited  ;  the  dialogue 
flows  easily.  The  diction  is  not,  however,  except  in  the 
language  of  Leonore,  individualized  or  characteristic :  it  is 
everywhere  the  poet's,  not  Helen's,  or  Lothair's,  or  Ed 
ward's,  and  only  occasionally  does  it  rise  to  nervous 
ness  ;  only  here  and  there  is  the  real  language  of  passion 
employed,  that  terse  intensity  used  in  real  life  when  the 
feelings  are  excited.  The  use  of  imagery  in  passionate 
scenes  is  too  profuse  ;  for  instance,  in  the  last  act,  there 
is  some  charming  poetry  entirely  misplaced  ;  no  Leo- 


The  World's  Own.  91 

nore,  in  the  situation  represented,  would  stop  to  utter 
those  exquisite  thoughts.  Feeling,  too,  is  often  de 
scribed  when  it  should  be  expressed ;  still,  this  common 
est  of  faults  in  dramatic  writers  is  rare  in  "  The  World's 
Own"  by  comparison  with  others.  Although,  then,  I 
see  more  blemishes  in  the  language  (but  only  in  its 
lack  of  fitness,  not  in  the  language  itself)  than  in  any 
other  feature  of  the  piece,  the  author  is  still  far  beyond 
most  playwrights  in  this  very  respect.  Frequently  the 
words  are  full  of  emotion. 

.  When  Lamartine  was  a  young  and  eager  poet,  he 
took  a  play  to  Talma,  who  considered  it  carefully  and 
thoughtfully,  and  finally  exclaimed :  "  Wriiing  for  the 
stage  may  be  either  tragedy,  poetry,  or  the  drama — 
Corneille,  Racine,  Shakspeare ;  but  the  drama  bears  the 
palm ;  the  drama  is  natural,  the  others  artistic.  I  have 
become  what  I  am  by  following  nature  rather  than  art, 
by  studying  Shakspeare  rather  than  the  French  writers." 
This  remarkable  admission  from  the  greatest  of  all 
French  actors,  is  an  epitome  of  criticism.  Tragedy  is 
the  stilted  style- in  which  the  ancients  delighted,  which 
is  indeed  awful,  impressive,  and  sublime ;  which  even 
contains  a  fire  and  spirit,  that  occasionally  startle  us, 
as  in  the  "Cid"  of  Corneille  or  the  "Hippolytus  Stepha- 
nophorus"  of  Euripides.  Poetry  (for  the  stage)  is  the  ex 
quisite  description  of  events,  combined  with  ornaments 
of  figure  and  language,  with  the  music  of  words,  and 
the  delicate  graces  of  thought :  like  the  flow  of  Racine, 
or  the  fancy  of  Addison,  but  cold  and  unimpassioned 
for  all  its  beauty.  The  Shakspearean,  romantic  drama, 
alone  represents  life,  nature,  humanity.  This  speaks 
right  home  to  every  heart ;  this  is  what  we  imperiously 


92  The  Vagabond. 

demand  upon  the  stage.  All  else  is  impertinent,  and  in 
effective  by  comparison.  Poetry  has  no  business  in  the 
theatre  at  all ;  it  is  meant"  for  the  closet,  for  reading, 
not  for  acting.  The  true  classic  tragedy  is  different. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  have  it  banished  from  the  stage  ; 
but  it  needs  superlative  histrionic  genius  to  make  it  en 
durable  ;  and  even  then,  in  absolute  power  it  must  yield 
to  the  drama,  of  which,  of  course,  Shakspeare  is  king — 
unapproachable  and  alone.  Still,  others  may  attempt 
what  only  he  could  achieve ;  they  may  wander  round 
the  sides  of  that  Parnassus  on  whose  summit  he  sits 
serene. 

Applying  this  test  to  "The  World's  Own,"  it  must  be 
pronounced  unequal ;  with  striking  beauties  it  also  has 
striking  faults  ;  it  cannot  be  reckoned  a  complete  drama, 
because  of  its  great  lack  of  unity,  and  the  infusion,  or 
intrusion  rather,  of  poetic  sentiment ;  and  yet  it  is 
much  more  than  a  poem.  Its  passion,  its  one  great  cha 
racter,  its  dramatic  situations  give  it  a  claim  to  another 
title.  In  the  closet  it  will  bear  closer  study ;  you  will 
there  be  willing  to  spare  no  splendid  sentiment  or  ex 
pression.  Enjoy  it  there  as  it  first  came  from  the  woman's 
heart ;  her  truest  offspring,  for  it  is  all  her  own. 


THE   AMATEURS. 

"Will  my  daughter  prove  a  good  musician?" 

Timon  of  Athens. 

SOME  of  the  amateurs  are  amateurs  no  longer;  some 
have  gone  to  Constantinople  and  some  to  convents; 
some  have  renounced  all  further  publicity,  and  one  is  a 
prima  donna.  The  rage  for  amateur  performances  has 
culminated  in  the  d&bdt  of  Mrs.  de  Wilhorst,  and  we 
may  now  expect  to  witness  a  subsidence.  The  papas 
will  be  frightened  at  the  result  which  in  one  instance 
has  followed  upon  these  musical  pastimes ;  and  even  the 
charmers  charming  never  so  wisely,  will  shrink  from 
the  prospect  of  such  a  finale  as  the  stage !  What  rich 
father,  indeed,  wouldn't  be  frightened  at  the  veracious 
history  which  is  vouched  for  by  all  the  belles  in  town? 
Listen,  ye  fathers  with  singing  daughters! 

A  handsome  tenor  captivates  the  fancy  of  a  young 
heiress,  and  demands  her  hand ;  whereupon  papa  in 
forms  him  that  there  is  no  objection  to  the  person  or 
character  of  Almaviva,  but  a  decided  prejudice  against 
his  occupation.  Tenor  then  very  obligingly  offers  to 
relinquish  his  position,  and  deprive  all  the  infatuated 
fair  ones  of  an  opportunity  to  hear  him  at  St.  Stephen's 
or  the  opera,  if  papa  will  settle  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  upon  his  daughter.  The  very  handsome  propo- 


94  The  Vagabond. 

sition  is  respectfully  declined;  then,  gossip  declares 
(how  truly,  who  can  say?)  that  he,  so  used  to  romantic 
adventures  on  the  stage,  endeavors  to  get  up  one  off. 
An  elopement  is  planned,  but  just  as  Norina  is  making 
off  with  Almaviva;  in  comes  old  Bartolo ;  and  the 
denouement  is  altogether  different  from  that  set  down 
in  the  libretto,  but  quite  as  comic.  Other  stories  have 
sadder  endings.  N'en  parlous  plus. 

In  the  course  of  my  vagabondage  within  the  last — 1 
shan't  say  how  many — years,  I  have  wandered  into 
churches  and  parlors  innumerable,  opera-boxes  and 
choirs,  coulisses  and  vestries.  To  all  I  have  the  open 
sesame,  and  everywhere  the  worship  of  Euterpe  is  cele 
brated.  Newport  is  as  musical  as  the  Fifth  avenue: 
Catholic  priests  and  Baptist  preachers  alike  bow  at  the 
shrine  of  St.  Cecilia.  Those  in  the  innermost  pene 
tralia  of  society  are  afflicted  by  the  same  vertigo  which 
whirls  still  faster  the  circles  of  the  outside  courts.  So 
long  ago  as  when  the  Astor  Place  opera-house  was 
flourishing,  young  ladies  were  sent  to  convents  because 
they  would  fall  in  love  with  tenors,  and  Mr.  Willis  had 
to  exclude  artists  from  society.  (  Vide  Home  Journal, 
de  Maretzek.) 

In  the  course  of  tune,  the  Academy  was  opened, 
and  after  Grisi  and  Mario  had  gone  home  disappointed, 
and  Mirate  unappreciated,  Brignoli,  who  sings  through 
his  nose,  took  the  town  by  storm.  He  and  his  fat 
friend,  who  needed  not  Patania  to  caricature  him, 
were  invited  everywhere.  First,  they  sang  at  private 
parties  with  young  ladies  who  had  good  voices, 
and  the  young  ladies  of  course  went  to  the  opera 
on  benefit  nights.  So  Amodio  and  Brignoli  were 


The  Amateurs.  95 

the  rage.  All  sorts  of  funny  and  piquant  stories  were 
current  about  their  triumphs  and  escapades.  If  Amodio 
entered  a  room,  everybody  was  expected  to  get  out  of 
his  way  ;  and  I  heard  a  lady  say  to  her  daughter,  when 
the  'tenor  was  presented:  "  Rise,  my  dear,  'tis  Mr.  Brig- 
noli !"  About  this  time,  it  was  the  fashion  to  go  to 
vespers  either  at  St.  Stephen's  or  at  St.  Francis  de 
Xavier's;  so -the  opera  singers  must  perform  there; 
and  occasionally  a  programme  was  issued  at  Grace 
church  to  celebrate  the  debut  of  a  new  performer,  or 
the  passion  of  our  Lord. 

By  degrees,  the  belles  who  had  voices  began  to  culti 
vate  them.  They  had  the  same  masters  who  taught  the 
tenors ;  they  discovered  that  they  could  sing  as  well  as 
Yestvali,  or,  at  least,  as  Ventaldi ;  they  tried  "  Stride  la 
Vampa"  and  "Tacea  la  Notte,"  and  rather  liked  the 
Cifect.  At  receptions  they  were  applauded :  morning 
visits  happened  on  the  days  when  they  took  lessons,  and 
were  converted  into  charming  occasions.  By  and  by,  their 
progress  becoming  considerable,  it  was  determined  to 
give  a  charity  concert,  at  which,  of  course,  no  names 
should  be  announced,  and  the  performers  were  to  sing 
behind  a  screen.  The  tickets  were  sold  only  to  friends, 
and  not  to  be  had  at  all  in  the  shops.  This  was 
extremely  agreeable,  and  exclusive  and  charitable.  The 
benevolent  songstresses  were  listened  to  respectfully, 
.and  afterwards  complimented  ;  but  no  vulgar  applause 
was  allowed  in  the  churches.  However,  the  importance 
of  the  aforementioned  opera  singers  was  magnified  by 
this  new  fantasy.  Few  men  in  society  can  sing.  There 
is  one  young  person  who  takes  his  notes  falsely,  and  is 
always  in  the  bills  of  every  private  performance ;  but 


96  The  Vagabond. 

he  is  the  sole  exception ;  and  he  is  only  tolerated  (musi 
cally)  because  he  is  alone.  If  anybody  with  a  good 
voice  and  any  manners  at  all  wishes  a  social  success,  it 
can  be  assured  him  in  New  York.  The  belles  say 
"Can  he  sing?  Oh,  introduce  him  immediately:  any 
man  who  can  sing  is  such  an  acquisition  !"  We  should 
have  had  private  operas  long  ago  had  there  been  culti 
vated  male  voices ;  for  the  public  performers  are  shy  of 
disposing  of  their  wares  in  private.  I  was  once  at  a 
concert  where  the  tickets  were  disposed  of  only  by  in 
vitation,  and  at  which  Brignoli  assisted.  He  was 
applauded,  and  an  encore  demanded ;  but  he  caused  it 
to  be  announced  to  the  audience  that  if  they  wished  to 
hear  his  song  again,  they  could  do  so  the  next  night  at 
the  opera.  I  don't  wonder  at  Mr.  Willis,  myself.  But 
about  that  concert :  it  was  extremely  brilliant,  and  as  it 
was  not  in  a  church,  and  no  tickets  were  sold,  it  was 
thought  admissible  to  applaud;  this  was  an  onward 
step  in  the  march  of  musical  improvement. 

Then  another  feature  became  apparent.  Cards  of 
invitation  were  issued  for  a  performance  at  a  Catholic 
church,  to  take  the  place  of  vespers,  which  were  found  to 
be  rather  tame,  though  for  a  long  while  the  psalms  had 
been  sung  to  the  music  of  "La  Favorita"  and  "'I  Puri- 
tani."  But  this  performance  was  to  be  peculiar :  no  money 
was  to  be  taken  at  the  door,  but  no  entrance  allowed 
without  a  ticket ;  so  all  the  fashion  and  taste  of  the  town 
went.  I  know  how  hard  I  tried  to  get  a  card,  for  they 
were  in  demand ;  but  a  belle  of  my  acquaintance  took 
pity  on  me,  and  carried  me  in  under  her  wing.  Well, 
the  music  was  superb :  priests  and  fine  ladies  and  artists 
made  a  delightful  ensemble.  The  programme  was  an- 


The  Amateurs. 


97 


nounced  from  the  altar ;  and  one  of  the  performers  being 
indisposed,  a  popular  ballad  singer  kindly  offered  his 
valuable  services,  for  this  occasion  only.  But  the  arch 
bishop  thought  such  proceedings  scarcely  proper  for  the 
place,  and  put  a  stop  to  them.  However,  they  were 
resumed,  shortly  after,  at  a  Baptist  place  of  worship; 
and  as  the  ministers  of  that  persuasion  have  no  fear  of 
archbishops  before  their  eyes,  morceaux  from  "  La  Tra- 
viata  "  and  other  high-toned  operas  were  offered  to  the 
ears  polite,  sooth  to  say,  not  unaccustomed  to  the 
strains. 

I  don't  know  whether  my  history  is  in  exact  chrono 
logical  order ;  but  about  this  time  the  young  ladies 
began  to  sing  on  the  outside  of  the  screen,  and  in  com 
pany  with  the  tenors.  Then,  during  the  summer,  there 
were  triumphs  at  the  watering-places,  and  some  of  them 
mentioned  in  the  newspapers.  It  was  not  till  last  fall, 
however,  that  people  in  society  performed  at  public  con 
certs,  for  which  placards  were  stuck  up  around  the 
streets,  and  tickets  for  sale  at  the  music-shops.  We 
all  know  of  these  occasions :  we  know  how  names 
were  ferreted  out  and  published  in  the  prints,  and  criti 
cisms  freely  passed  on  the  amateurs.  Then,  too,  during 
the  season,  concerts  have  been  given  in  private  houses 
not  a  few,  where  the  tickets,  though  bought,  were 
yet  bought  only  by  friends  to  whom  they  had  been  sent. 
Still,  friends  sometimes  were  anything  but  obliged  by 
the  compliment.  Patronesses  sent  parcels  of  cards  to 
their  acquaintances,  expecting  them  to  take  twenty-five 
— at  two  dollars  a  card — forcing  charity  upon  one  at  a 
prodigious  rate.  One  woman  of  fashion  waylaid  me  in 
her  carriage.  As  I  was  passing  Stewart's,  she  bowed  so 

5 


98  The  Vagabond. 

graciously  that  I  ran  up  uncovered,  and  on  the  frcnl 
seat  she  had  a  pile  of  concert  cards.  She  secured  me, 
by  politely  bestowing  one  with  her  compliments,  and 
of  course,  what  had  I  to  do?  "Well,  she  was  in  the 
fashion ;  they  all  did  so ;  it  was  for  charity.  She  would 
no  more  have  done  it  for  another  purpose  than  she  would 
have  garrotcd  me. 

All  the  world  has  heard  of  the  last  of  these  entertain 
ments,  which,  though  given  at  a  gorgeous  mansion,  was 
not  so  successful.  The  town  had  got  surfeited,  and  some 
of  the  sweetest  of  the  syrens  were  not  willing  to  risk 
any  further  publicity.  Those,  in  fact,  who  got  the  rich 
est  laurels  were  the  first  to  shrink  back  into  private 
parties  and  morning  visits,  where  only  lucky  Vaga 
bonds  can  hear  them.  But  these  amateurs  are  really 
accomplished  musicians.  More  than  one  of  them  have 
voices  naturally  as  fine  as  those  of  the  great  prima 
donnas ;  more  than  one  have  cultivation  that  would  put 
to  shame  that  of  artists  who  have  sung  with  acceptance 
at  the  Academy  of  Music.  But  they  are  frightened ; 
the  paying  public  will  hear  them  no  more. 

And  it  is  scarcely  to  be  desired  that  they  should. 
When  they  are  tempted  to  the  stage  or  to  Constanti 
nople,  it  is  time  the  curtain  should  fall.  To  be  sure  la 
haute  societe  abroad  indulges  in  just  such  freaks.  Fashion 
is  the  same  everywhere :  Piccolomini  is  the  De  Wilhorst 
of  Italy ;  but  brilliant  as  may  be  the  career  of  both 
these  artists,  not  many  families  are  envious  of  such  suc 
cess  for  their  own  members.  All  the  Avorld  went  to  see 
the  American  prima  donna  in  "  Lucia."  She  looked 
beautiful  and  sang  delightfully ;  yet  there  are  better 
singers  in  New  York  to-day  than  she.  But  who  would 


The  Amateurs.  *      99 

desire  for  them  to  share  her  triumphs  ?  And  for  my 
part,  though  I  applauded  too,  and  went  every  night  to  see 
her,  and  shall  go  again  when  she  sings  in  the  "  Sonnam- 
bula,"  I  am  sorry  for  her.  I  admire  her  grace  and  her 
beauty.  I  think  her  acting  and  her  singing  delightful ; 
but  I  desire  no  such  career  for  any  friend  of  mine :  I 
trust  this  climax  of  amateur  singing  may  hinder  any  fur 
ther  publicity.  Let  the  charming  Cecilias  keep  their 
gifts  for  their  friends  and  for  society.  Strangers  have 
no  right  to  hear  them ;  will  hear  them  coldly,  and  are 
more  likely  to  be  harsh  than  kind  in  their  comments. 
To  be  sure,  'tis  piquante  to  criticise  the  performances 
of  belles  and  heiresses ;  but  this  is  a  dainty. I  would 
not  offer  the  jaded  palates  of  the  general  public.  Such 
entertainments  should  be  kept  for  choicer  friends. 

However,  since  Mrs.  De  Wilhorst  has  deliberately 
adopted  the  stage,  I  wish  her  all  success.  I  am  proud 
that  an  American  should  step  at  once  to  such  a  position 
as  that  she  has  received  and  deserves.  I  am  proud  that 
New  York  pronounces  judgment  so  righteously,  so  fear 
lessly,  without  awaiting  European  sanction  ;  elevating 
one  of  the  fairest  of  its  daughters  to  a  high  place  on  the 
lyric  stage.  I  bid  the  debutante,  with  all  my  heart, 
God  speed. 


VERDI. 

"By'r  lady,  he's  a  good  musician." 

1  Henry  IV. 

THE  best-abused  and  most  admired  composer  of  our 
time  is  Giuseppe  Verdi.  His  music  is  rendered  in  Mex 
ico  and  St.  Petersburg  with  equal  success;  it  sets  on 
fire  the  phlegmatic  English  fashionables,  and  is  the  rage, 
at  the  same  time,  in  the  capitals  of  Europe  and  America, 
Paris  and  New  York.  The  outside  barbarians,  as  Jules 
Janin  is  pleased  to  call  us,  and  the  acknowledged  sove 
reigns  and  arbiters  of  taste,  alike  pay  him  homage, 
while  his  own  excitable  countrymen  go  wild  over  "  Erna- 
ni"  and  "I  Lombardi,"  over  "Louisa  Miller"  and 
"  Rigoletto."  Every  other  master  is  dethroned  in  his 
favor ;  Meyerbeer  is  tumbled  into  the  dust  like  Dagon, 
and  Rossini  almost  forgotten.  Even  the  Quakers  of  Phi 
ladelphia  own  his  unquiet  sway,  and  at  the  first  opportu 
nity  rushed,  last  Lent,  thirteen  times  to  hear  Verdi,  for 
once  that  they  listened  to  Bellini  and  three  times  to  Doni 
zetti.  Yet  there  is  a  set-off  to  these  triumphs ;  there  are 
those  whose  hearts  cling  to  their  old  idols,  who  cannot  give 
tip  Mozart  and  Von  Weber,  who  will  not  swear  by  the 
ne\*  divinity.  These  prate  of  the  noise  of  Verdi ;  they 
declaim  about  his  declamation;  they  laugh  at  the 
"Anvil  Chorus,"  and  hold  up  their  hands  in  horror  at "  La 


Verdi.  101 

Traviata."  But  I  notice  that  they  never  stay  away  on 
"  II  Trovatore "  nights,  while  when  even  "  Guillaume 
Tell "  or  "  Don  Giovanni "  is  given,  their  places  are  some 
times  empty.  Still,  there  is  a  certain  force  in  the  censure 
that  the  severely  critical  often  pass  upon  Vei'di.  He  is 
human,  and  therefore  unequal.  There  is  a  degree  of  truth 
in  the  strictures  of  those  educated  to  like  other  masters ; 
only  I  am  tired  of  this  wholesale  abuse.  When  a  new 
king  of  music  shall  arise,  then  how  the  cavillers  will  talk 
of  Verdi ;  then,  when  the  fickle  crowd  fills  the  Academy 
at  the  production  of  the  latest  opera,  and  every  prima 
donna  selects  the  newest  work  for  her  debUt,  then  how 
the  old  people  will  look  back  lingeringly  at  the  times 
when  Verdi  was  the  rage !  They  will  tell  of  "  Trovatore" 
sung  oftener  in  a  year  than  all  other  operas  together,  of  the 
hurdy-gurdies  that  taught  the  poorest  to  admire  "Stride 
la  Vampa  "  and  "  Tacea  la  Notte,"  of  the  nightly  ova 
tions  paid  to  genius  when  "  La  Traviata"  made  the  prud 
ish  English  Queen  forget  her  prudery,  and  "  Ernani " 
forced  the  most  bigoted  Bostonians  to  neglect  Beethoven. 
Yet  these  are  the  people  who  now  enlighten  us  on  Verdi's 
faults.  They  cannot  forgive  him  that  he  is  popular; 
they  will  not  discover  that  his  passion  is  the  secret  of 
his  power ;  they  will  not  acknowledge  the  genius  which 
subdues  all  hearts,  the  fire  that  stirs  us  all,  the  sympa 
thetic  influence  that  reaches  to  every  nature,  that  pene 
trates  beneath  the  crust  of  fashion  and  form,  down  to  the 
volcanic  bosoms  so  often  hidden  beneath. 

Verdi  is  noisy,  he  is  unfinished,  he  is  fitful,  he  is  fever 
ish.  The  "Anvil  Chorus"  is  of  the  adcaptandum  order, 
and  the  masking  music  of  the  "  Traviata"  cannot  be  called 
first-rate.  He  repeats  himself,  too  ;  you  can  here  and 


1O2  The  Vagabond. 

there  trace  the  same  ideas  in  "Ernani"  and  "II  Trova- 
tore;"  you  will  notice  bars,  and  strains,  and  motifs,  almost 
identical,  in  his  different  works.  Then  his  mannerisms 
are  undoubted  ;  more  than  an  individuality,  more  than 
intense  characterization  is  seen  in  his  productions ; 
real,  petty  affectations  cling  to  him,  unworthy  of  so 
great  a  master.  I  own  that  some  of  his  works  are 
unequal  and  almost  tame.  I  own  that  harsh  passages 
too  often  occur  in  all  his  music ;  that  the  exquisite  finish 
of  Rossini  and  the  splendid  science  of  Meyerbeer  are 
everywhere  lacking ;  that  noisy  choruses  and  orchestral 
crashes  are  sometimes  made  to  cover  over  bare  thoughts, 
or  hide  the  wrants  of  Beethoven's  spirituality  and 
Mozart's  grandeur.  But  I  will  own  nothing  more. 

If  Verdi  is  not  spiritual,  he  is  intensely  human ; 
if  he  is  not  religious,  he  is  passionate  beyond  all 
composers ;  if  he  has  not  the  profundity  of  the  Germans, 
the  tender  sweetness  of  Bellini,  or  the  light,  exquisite 
grace  of  the  French  opera,  he  has  merits  all  his  own, 
which  none  can  claim  but  he ;  which  are  striking ; 
which  speak  to  us  all;  which  secure  his  triumphs; 
which  have  placed  him  rightly  where  he  is ;  which  have 
made  him  absolute  king  of  all  the  opera  houses  in  the 
world.  I  venture  to  say  that,  within  the  last  two  years, 
his  operas  have  been  sung  in  every  great  city  of  Europe 
or  America  oftener  than  the  operas  of  all  other  compo 
sers.  I  venture  to  say  that  the  airs  from  "  II  Trovatore  " 
were  familiar  to  more  people  within  a  year  after  the 
production  of  that  work  than  ever  happened  before  to 
any  work  of  any  musical  writer.  Now,  when  a  man 
obtains  such  a  popularity  as  this,  there  is  no  blinking 
the  fact;  no  amount  of  carping  criticism  can  do  away 


Verdi.  j  03 

with  it ;  no  shrugging  of  shoulders  or  raising  of  eye-brows 
can  affect  it ;  no  sneering  silence  can  answer  why  his  works 
will  crowd  a  theatre  in  any  capital  in  the  world,  at  times 
when  any  other  opera  would  be  sung  to  empty  benches. 
Nothing  but  genius  could  accomplish  this ;  noise  alone 
is  not  competent  to  such  a  task ;  and  not  genius  alone, 
but  a  genius  eminently  suited  to  the  genius  of  the  age. 
And  herein  I  believe  lies  the  secret  of  Verdi's  power: 
he  expresses,  he  embodies  the  fitful  vehemence,  the  mate 
rial  character  even,  the  rushing,  headstrong  impetuous- 
ness,  the  stormy  demonstrations  of  this  demonstrative 
age.  He  is  the  most  material  of  musicians.  He  is  the 
Miss  Heron  of  composers.  His  merits  are  of  that  ap 
parent  sort  which  all  can  feel.  Not  only,  however,  the 
most  uneducated  share  the  emotions  which  he  excites  : 
these  feelings  are  common  to  us  all ;  the  high  and  low 
alike  love  and  hate;  the  most  careful  critic  and  the 
most  sensuous  poet  come  beneath  this  sway  ;  the  cra 
ziest  lover  and  the  coldest  banker  are  stirred  by  the 
rush  of  feeling  that  speaks  in  Verdi's  strains.  To  be 
sure,  the  impetuous,  the  young,  the  emotional  feel  it 
the  most  keenly ;  those  brimful  of  passion  themselves 
are  excited  most  by  this  exciting  music ;  but  others, 
outwardly  calm,  are  also  affected  by  it.  These  appa 
rently  phlegmatic  people,  who  conceal  such  a  wealth  of 
intensity  under  their  cold  exteriors,  these  Jane  Eyres 
and  John  Halifaxes  all  like  Verdi's  music.  Who  can 
not  see  the  connexion,  the  similarity  rather,  between 
such  geniuses  as  the  author  of  Jane  Eyre  and  Verdi, 
between  Madame  Dudevant,  between  De  la  Roche,  and 
the  passionate  composer  ?  He  does  not  at  all  represent 
the  thinking,  doubting  phase  of  our  age ;  he  has  not  the 


104  The  Vagabond. 

profound  meaning,  the  subtle  ideas  of  Meyerbeer,  or  of 
many  of  the  writers  of  this  day.  He  aspires  not  to  the 
infinite  and  superhuman  ;  but  he  searches  the  depth  of 
mortal  feeling ;  he  shares  the  most  violent  emotions  ; 
he  expresses  in  the  most  absolute  manner  the  unrest, 
the  eagerness,  the  mad  torrent  of  feeling  characteristic 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  agonizing  wail  of  the 
"  Miserere,"  the  wild  leaping  into  song  of  the  Di  tale 
amor,  the  sad  plaint  of  the  finale  of  "  II  Trovatore," 
what  can  there  be  in  words  to  equal  these  ?  What  has 
there  been  in  music  to  surpass  them  ? 

Then  all  this  is  done  in  melody.  It  is  impossible  for 
a  composer  to  seize  hold  of  the  hearts  of  men  without 
the  aid  of  melody.  The  most  elaborate  ornamentation, 
the  most  admirable  combinations,  the  most  perfect  har 
mony  gratify  indeed  a  cultured  ear  and  satisfy  a  cultured 
taste,  but  do  not  touch  the  nerve  and  never  rouse  the 
feelings.  We  can  listen  calmly  to  the  music  that  evi 
dences  the  completest  science,  when  some  snatch  of 
singular  or  sweet  melody  shall  bring  tears  to  the  dryest 
eyes,  and  effect  the  sternest  man.  Verdi  has  this  gift 
of  melody  in  as  great  a  degree  as  any  composer — the 
gift  of  expressing  passion  in  melody.  There  is  not  a 
strain  in  the  "  Trovatore,"  from  beginning  to  end,  that  is 
not  at  once  beautiful  and  full  of  meaning,  that  lingers 
not  in  the  memory  ;  and  several  pieces  in  "  Ernani "  are 
among  the  most  wonderful  Teachings  out,  the  most  tre 
mendous  utterances  of  earthly  passion  that  I  have  ever 
heard.  The  two  great  things  of  Meyerbeer,  the  JKobert, 
toi  que  j'aime  and  the  Ah,  monfils,  only  can  compare 
with  them ;  and  of  these,  the  latter  is  a  mother's  holy 
feeling,  rather  subdued  and  religious  in  character,  and 


Verdi.  105 

the  former  partakes  in  some  measure  of  the  unhumau 
nature  of  the  "  Robert  le  Diable." 

Donizetti,  too,  resembles  Verdi  in  this  extraordinary 
intensity ;  his  music  is  certainly  smoother,  and  at  times 
as  dramatically  powerful;  but  there  are  declamatory 
bursts  in  Verdi  which  surpass  any  similar  attempts  of 
the  older  master  ;  there  are  one  or  two  notes  in  the  finale 
of  the  third  act  of  "  Ernani,"  and  in  the  soprano  and 
tenor  writing  of  the  fourth  act  of  the  same  opera,  that 
transcend,  in  this  respect,  any  single  thing  that  Doni 
zetti  has  done.  Verdi  has  more  of  this  one  peculiar 
quality  that  constitutes  his  greatness  than  Donizetti, 
and  so  is  better  liked  than  the  other.  When  Donizetti 
approaches  the  intensity  of  Verdi,  he  is  in  more  demand. 
The  "  Lucrezia,"  the  "  Lucia,"  the  fourth  act  of  the 
"  Favorita,"  are  of  this  character,  but  still  not  so  wildly, 
uncontrollably  passionate  as  Verdi's  greatest  efforts. 

I  do  not  call  Verdi  the  greatest  of  composers,  but  I 
do  call  him  the  most  effective  ;  I  do  not  claim  for  him 
an  absolute  superiority  to  all  others  in  all  respects,  but 
I  claim  that  he  who  seizes  and  expresses  the  spirit  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lives,  is  a  man  of  undoubted  genius  ; 
that  he  who  so  makes  his  mark,  who  can  so  affect  a  ma 
terial  age,  who  can  so  triumph  when  the  art  he  worships 
is  at  its  culmination,  when  music  is  of  all  arts  the  best 
appreciated  and  most  loved,  at  the  moment  of  its  his 
tory  when  it  has  reached  the  highest  point  of  excellence, 
he  who  triumphs  then,  triumphs  indeed.  Success  must 
be  the  test;  and  this  usurper,  this  Napoleon,  this  par 
venu,  has  got  the  better  of  the  legitimates  ;  there  is  no 
shaking  his  throne,  no  disturbing  his  empire.  I  aiy 
willing  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance. 

5*   ^ 


MYSELF. 


And  must  I  ravel  out 


My  weaved-up  follies?" 

Richard  II. 


WHO  wouldn't  be  a  Vagabond  ?  Here  am  I,  enjcy- 
irg  myself  amazingly  under  my  invisible  cap.  I  go 
aiound,  like  the  prince  in  the  fairy  tale,  and  hear  what 
my  friends  think  of  me,  or  of  my  other  self.  I  get  the 
benefit  of  some  very  impartial  criticism,  am  censured  to 
my  face  by  the  best  bred  people,  and  sometimes  rated 
soundly  by  those  who  would  not  offend  me  wittingly  or 
willingly,  for  the  world.  I  paid  a  visit  the  other  morn 
ing,  and  one  of  my  most  charming  acquaintances  asked 
me  if  I  read  "  The  Vagabond"  papers.  I  felt  my  heart 
in  my  throat,  for  I  was  particularly  anxious  for  the  god 
dess's  good  opinion,  but  repressed  my  agitation,  and 
said  inquiringly  :  "  '  The  Vagabond  ?' — '  The  Vaga 
bond  ?'  "  "  Yes,  in  the  Sunday  Times."  I  thought  I 
had  seen  such  articles ;  and  this  most  delightful  of 
maidens  refreshed  my  memory  by  mentioning  the  titles 
of  several.  She  absolutely  recollected  what  I  had  writ 
ten  about :  I  was  willing  to  fall  down  and  worship  her 
on  the  spot.  But  more,  she  remembered  what  I  had 
said :  she  commented  upon  the  style,  she  criticised  the 
criticisms,  she  praised  several  papers,  and  lifted  me  up 


Myself.  107 

into  the  seventh  heaven,  and  then,  alas !  she  recollected 
that  I  had  dispraised  one  of  her  favorites.  And  then  the 
poor  Vagabond,  who  had  been  swelling  with  pride,  who 
had  fancied  himself  an  Addison  or  a  Steele,  who  was 
putting  on  airs,  and  smiling  so  graciously,  and  listening 
so  attentively,  drew  back  in  his  shell.  The  malignant, 
shrewish  young  woman,  whose  tongue  it  must  be  owned 
is  severe — and  of  all  things  a  caustic  tongue  is  most  un 
seemly  in  a  young  female ;  this  virago,  this  Xantippe, 
this  Katharine,  this  Beatrice  let  loose  her  arrows  at  an 
unarmed,  defenceless,  and,  as  she  thought,  absent  Vaga 
bond.  He  was  unfair,  he  was  unjust,  he  was  ungen- 
tlemanly  (the  unkindest  cut  of  all).  He  was  pedantic, 
he  was  ignorant,  he  was  affected,  he  was  ridiculously  na 
tural.  Oh  !  the  vocabulary  of  censure,  the  storm  of 
words  that  she  rattled  down  on  me  !  Hailstones  and 
coals  of  fire  !  And  I,  who  had  been  on  the  point  of 
raising  my  visor,  of  bowing  my  head,  like  Ivanhoe,  to 
receive  the  laurel  crown  from  Rowena's  hand,  I  took 
my  beaver  instead,  and  wished  Rowena  a  good  morn 
ing. 

But  I  grow  philosophical  and  tough :  I  begin  to  re 
semble  eels.  Several  such  scorchings  have  enabled 
me  to  endure  the  flames  of  martyrdom  as  calmly  as 
St.  Lawrence  in  the  picture  of  Domenichino,  at  Mr. 
Goupil's.  Apropos  of  pictures  !  Another  of  my  ad 
ventures  I  must  tell  the  story  of.  Don't  every  hero  like 
to  fight  his  battles  o'er  again  ?  Don't  every  vagabond 
relate  his  escapades,  especially  if  they  are  connected  with 
the  sex  ?  What  if  it  is  vanity  of  vanities,  I  talk  under 
a  veil.  What  if  it  is  presuming  to  suppose  that  my 
readers  want  to  know  the  story !  I  am  sure  some  of 


108  The  Vagabond, 

them  are  curious  about  my  identity,  because  one  of  my 
own  acquaintances  asked  me  whether  I  knew  who  wrote 
"  The  Vagabond,"  and  I  flatly  told  her  "  oSTo."  Sir 
Walter  Scott  denied  the  authorship  of  the  Waverley 
novels,  and  so — you  ses.  The  countenance  I  have  in 
this  respect  reminds  me,  too,  how  vain  Cicero  was  ;  how 
he  prated  of  his  services  to  the  state  ;  how  Lamartine 
twaddled  about  the  pictures  in  his  old  Bible ;  how 
George  Sand  inflicts  whole  volumes  of  her  infantile 

~ 

memoirs  on  the  public ;  how  delightful  Franklin's  auto 
biography  is  acknowledged  to  be,  and  persuades  me 

that  the  Vagabond 1  leave  others  to   pursue   the 

parallel.     But,  apropos  of  pictures! 

A  Aveek  or  two  ago,  I  received  the  most  charming  of 
letters,  written  in  the  daintiest  of  hands,  directed  to 
"  The  Vagabond,"  and  signed  "  Norah" — a  very  pretty 
name,  by  the  way.  Irish,  too,  suggestive  of  Moore  and 
Norah  Creina.  This  delicate  epistle  began  with  the 
most  delicate  of  flatteries,  and  was  couched  throughout 
in  the  dearest  and  delightfulest  of  language,  and  begged 
me  to  write  more  about  pictures,  and  to  speak  of  the 
artists.  Thus  inspired,  what  Vagabond  could  refuse. 
Not  I,  certainly.  I  studied  the  letter  carefully,  and  de 
termined  which  of  the  artists  mentioned  I  thought  Norah 
cared  most  about ;  some  lover,  or  brother,  or  father  I 
supposed.  I  went  to  the  studio  with  a  friend,  saw  the  pic 
tures  she  had  told  of,  and  wrote  something  for  the  sake 
of  Norah,  which  I  hope  she  has  seen.  If  not,  I  will 
leave  a  copy  of  my  criticism  at  this  office,  and  she  can 
have  it  by  proving  property,  as  the  advertisements  say. 
However,  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  hit  the  mark,  for  I  have 
since  received  a  note  of  thanks,  signed  by  another  name, 


Myself.  1 09 

but  expressed  in  the  same  felicitous  and  flattering  phra 
seology,  impossible  to  be  counterfeited ;  and  if  my 
critical  acumen  is  not  sadly  at  fault,  I  know  Norah, 
though  Norah  doesn't  know  the  Vagabond.  In  the 
games  of  the  carnival,  if  the  mask  falls,  one  is  entitled  to 
look  at  the  black  eyes  it  concealed. 

But  I  have  another  correspondent,  one  of  those  bewitch 
ing  creatures,  who  in  disguise  are  so  daring ;  who  for 
get  the  story  of  Tancred  and  Clorinda ;  who  tantalize, 
and  delight,  and  provoke  by  turns.  This  unknown,  like 
the  lady  of  the  Green  Mantle  in  "  Redgauntlet,"  veils 
herself  under  an  initial,  and  in  a  style  more  individual 
ized,  but  different  entirely  from  Norah — characteristic, 
too,  I  am  sure,  often  saying  some  civil  things,  but  curtly 
and  piquantly,  and  so  of  course  with  a  seasoning  that 
adds  vastly  to  their  gout;  she  wants  me  to  write  on 
woman's  influence  and  woman's  sphere.  You  darling 
incognito,  I  think  woman's  right  and  duty  are  to  charm 
the  men,  to  write  lively  letters  to  Vagabonds.  I  think 
she  adorns  her  sex  when  she  captivates  ours  with  mys 
tery  ;  (what  god  was  it,  was  blind  ?)  that  she  is  irresis 
tible  when  she  makes  no  attacks ;  that  when  Eve  said  to 
Adam,  "  God  thy  law,  thou  mine,"  they  were  both  in 
Paradise  ;  and  if  the  head  of  the  woman  is  the  man,  the 
heart  of  man  always  belongs  to  woman. 

But,  my  gracious  correspondents,  don't  be  angry ;  I 
am  not  violating  any  decorum  by  talking  Avith  you  in 
public :  your  secret  is  known,  but  not  you.  I  wanted  to 
answer  your  charming  selves,  and  how  could  I  do  it  but 
in  character  and  in  print  ?  I  hope  you  don't  think  I 
have  been  no  chevalier  sans  reproche  in  thus  telling 
my  triumphs ;  for  is  it  not  a  triumph  to  gain  an  interest 


lio  The  Vagabond. 

in  the  imagination  of  two  such  fair  ones  ?  I  was  sure 
to  preserve  that  interest  only  while  the  mystery  was 
preserved.  Why  not  let  me  heighten  it ;  why  not  let 
me  intensify  my  personality  ;  why  not  let  me  gloat  over 
my  good  luck  to  my  friends  who  read  these  papers  ?  If 
two  have  felt  so  kindly  towards  the  Vagabond,  may  not 
others  have  a  sufficient  concern  to  read  the  story  with  a 
sparkling  eye  ?  Pray  don't  let  your  own  glisten  into 
spite,  or  those  favorable  sentiments  turn  to  indignation. 
I  wouldn't  for  the  world  incur  your  wrath. 

I  said  one  of  my  correspondents  gave  me  an  initial : 
it  is  X.  Now  I  don't  know  any  X.  family  hi  which 
there  is  a  daughter  who  could  write  that  letter.  Per 
haps  she  thinks  she  has  detected  me  as  Juliet  did 
Romeo  at  the  ball,  "too  early -seen  unknown,  and 
known  too  late ;"  but  I  fear  me  'tis  a  mistake.  As  for 
the  Vagabond,  every  time  he  is  presented  to  a  Miss  X., 
he  will  flutter  until  he  discovers  whether  or  not  'tis  his 
X.  So  beware,  my  unknown  ;  be  chary  of  the  introduc 
tions  you  grant.  The  Vagabond  is  not  now  among 
your  avowed  admirers  ;  you  need  not  try  your  powers 
of  penetration  upon  the  crowd  who  now  strive  for  a 
smile,  or,  sweeter  yet,  a  sigh ;  but  every  time  a  new 
adorer  bows  at  the  shrine,  it  may  be  he  who  possesses 
your  secret.  I  shall  recognise  you,  and  you  not  me. 

For  you  don't  know  whether  I'm  an  Adonis  or  a  Blue 
beard  :  one  lady  thought  me  an  old  man,  another  con 
cluded  I  was  a  hunchback.  However,  you  may  take  it 
for  granted  that  I  resemble  in  form  the  Apollo  Belvidere 
(which  the  women  all  prefer  to  the  Venus  of  the  Tribune), 
and  in  face,  the  youth  whose  beauty  was  so  super-emi 
nent  that  the  nymphs  pursued  him  in  the  stream  and 


Myself.  1 1 1 

grove,  until  he  finally  sought  refuge  on  the  banks  of  a 
secluded  lake,  and,  contemplating  his  own  image,  waa 
by  compassionate  divinities  transformed  to  a  plant, 
which  has  ever  since  borne  his  name,  Narcissus.  I, 
radiant  in  charms  of  person,  found  no  rest  in  society,  at 
any  rate  where  they  dance  the  German,  but  sought 
refuge  in  these  columns,  where  I  am  hidden  under  the 
Protean  type,  and  the  Vagabond  is  perchance  an  object 
of  interest  to  Xes  and  Norahs,  who,  if  they  knew  the 
original,  could  trace  no  resemblance  to  the  flower.  Cruel 
ones,  do  not  say  he  also  liked  to  contemplate  himself, 
although  this  paper  give  you  cause. 

Victor  Hugo  says  somewhere,  in  reply  to  those  who 
had  accused  him  of  egotism :  "  Do  not  those  who  com 
plain  of  the  writers  that  constantly  say '  I,  I,'  see  that  when 
I  write  of  myself,  I  write  of  you  ;  that  showing  my  own 
opinions  and  personality,  I  disclose  yours ;  that  this  '  I,  I,' 
really  means  *  you,  you  ?» " 


HENRY  W.  BELLOWS. 

"I  know  you  wise, religious." 

Henry  VIII. 

OUTSPOKENNESS  is  a  virtue.  Who  is  there  that  appre 
ciates  not  a  frank,  manly  expression  of  opinion,  a  fearless 
maintenance  of  doctrines  sure  to  bring  upon  their  advo 
cate  somewhat  of  censure  and  even  of  reproach  ?  Who 
feels  not  a  genuine  sympathy  with  any  attempt  at  inde 
pendence,  with  the  struggle  to  get  free  from  any  tram 
mels  ?  Who  admires  not  the  courage  that  dares  in 
behalf  of  others,  that  speaks  in  favor  of  a  caste  to  those 
whose  disfavor  only  that  caste  has  received,  that  flings  it 
self  into  the  breach,  sure  to  become  the  mark  of  many  a 
bitter  sarcasm  and  cruel  criticism  ;  but  careless  of  these 
if  it  can  but  say  a  good  word  for  a  great  cause,  can  but 
relieve  a  great  public  interest  from  unjust  odium?  The 
very  importance  of  the  aid  which  Dr.  Bellows  brings  to 
the  stage,  arises  more  from  his  position  than  from  his 
talents,  undoubted  though  they  be  ;  and  this  very  posi 
tion  exposes  him  in  a  peculiar  manner  to  the  harshest 
strictures,  the  unkindest  misconstructions.  All  honor, 
then,  to  his  boldness !  He  believes  himself  to  be 
right ;  and,  whatever  men  may  think  or  say  of  the  force 
or  justice  of  his  arguments,  they  must  admire  the 
abstract  courage  that  prompts  his  conduct. 


Henry  W.  Bellows.  113 

His  courage  in  this  instance,  however,  is  of  a  piece 
with  his  general  character.     I  have  heard  a  number  of 
his  discourses  at  different  times  and  at  various  intervals ; 
and  the  first  characteristic  to  force  itself  upon  my  obser 
vation  has  invariably  been  the  outspokenness  of  the  man. 
Many  a  preacher  of  peculiar  doctrines  in  this  metropolis 
hides  them  for  the  sake  of  popularity.     The  Calvinists 
are  said  to  reserve  their  sermons  on  predestination  for 
rainy  Sundays,  when  only  the  faithful  are  likely  to  per 
sist  in  their  attendance  ;  a  Unitarian  scarcely  alludes  to 
the  distinctive  tenets  of  his  sect ;    and  I   have   even 
heard  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  in  all  his  robes,  pro 
mise  to  say  nothing  that  could  reasonably  offend  the 
prejudices  of  his  heretic  hearers.     Not  so  with  Dr.  Bel 
lows  :  he  holds  unpopular  doctrines,  he  arrives  at  con 
clusions  entirely  dissimilar  from  those  generally  enter 
tained  ;  but  he  never  shirks  their  utterance,  he  never 
swerves  from  what  seems  to  him  the  line  of  duty,  he 
never  scruples  to  avow  openly,  and  in  the  face  of  the 
world,  what  he  learns  in  his  closet,  in  contemplation  or 
study.     What  he  learns  in  darkness,  that  speaks  he  in 
light ;  and  what  he  hears  in  the  ear,  that  preaches  he 
upon  the  house-top.     Frequently  his  notions  come  into 
contact  with  those  of  even  his  habitual  hearers ;  but  he 
believes  in  a  free  interchange  of  ideas ;  he  promulgates 
his  own,  upholds  them  with  all  the  skill  and  ability  of 
which  he  is  possessed,  and  leaves  the  result  to  take  care 
of  itself. 

Akin  to  this  courage — a  part,  indeed,  a  cause  of  it — 
is  earnestness,  sincerity,  an  abiding  conviction  of  the 
correctness  of  his  opinion  and  the  justice  of  his  course. 
A  man  can  never  fight  boldly  in  a  cause  of  which  he  is 


114  1he  Vagabond. 

ashamed,  and  certainly  not  so  well  for  a  cause  in  which 
his  heart  is  not  enlisted.  The  deep  conviction  of  his 
being  right  makes  him  careless  of  consequences,  while 
zeal,  we  all  know,  is  better  at  times  than  skill  or  strength. 
And,  whatever  may  be  said  or  thought  of  other  traits 
of  Dr.  Bellows,  his  earnestness  is  seldom  questioned. 
Thus,  character  rather  than  talent  is  uppermost  in  him ; 
traits  that  make  and  mark  the  man  seem  to  me  more 
prominent  than  those  which  distinguish  the  preacher 
or  the  orator.  I  speak,  of  course,  of  those  traits  as 
they  are  unfolded  in  his  public  career,  and  especially 
in  his  public  speeches. 

He  belongs  to  a  class  peculiar  to  our  time — of  serious, 
earnest,  thoughtful,  yet  practical  men ;  men  whom  I 
respect  most  profoundly,  though  I  do  not  always  nor 
altogether  concur  with  them  ;  men  who  think  they  have 
a  mission,  and  speak  it ;  who  have  a  work  to  do,  and  do 
it ;  who  have  a  doctrine  to  preach,  and  preach  it ;  a 
class  as  different  as  may  be  from  the  ordinary  orthodox 
ministers,  and  from  the  ordinary  popular  preachers. 
They  are  as  much  unlike  the  prosy,  long-winded,  nar 
row-minded,  bigoted  sermonizer,  as  to  the  shallow, 
selfish,  flashy  orator.  They  differ,  too,  from  the  talented 
and  learned  upholders  of  present  ideas  and  present 
systems ;  they  are  reformers,  or  at  least  progressive  in 
their  tendencies ;  they  preach  of  this  life,  but  forget 
not  the  next ;  they  scorn  not  the  concerns  of  this  world, 
they  believe  in  a  religion  which  affects  man's  doings 
here,  they  care  for  his  present  well-being — for  his 
advancement — for  his  comfort — for  his  amusement ;  but 
fail  not  to  consider  and  teach  him  to  consider,  earnestly 
and  anxiously,  his  future  destiny.  Whether  they  take 


Henry  W.  Bellows.  115 

the  right  course,  whether  they  direct  our  thoughts  into 
the  proper  channel,  whether  they  teach  true  doctrines 
in  relation  to  religion  itself  is  not  the  question  to  dis 
cuss  here ;  but  I  believe  they  are  right  in  combining 
thus  the  interests  of  two  worlds ;  in  looking  to  and 
caring  for  a  complex  nature ;  in  regarding  the  present 
as  well  as  the  future.  They  are  scarcely,  it  seems  to  me, 
preachers  in  the  technical  meaning  we  attach  to  the 
word,  but  they  preach  and  teach  in  reality.  They  cer 
tainly  depart  from  the  conventional  rules  and  the  con 
ventional  idea  of  the  pulpit;  but  do  they  swerve 
from  the  rules  dictated  either  by  sound  judgment  or 
enlightened  taste  ?  I  confess  I  admire  in  them  this 
double  sympathy  for  the  interests  of  here  and  hereafter; 
this  recognition  of  both  the  soul  and  body  of  man;  this 
Consideration  for  material  and  immaterial  concerns; 
this  acceptance  of  fact  and  this  endeavor  after  abstract 
good;  this  realism  and  idealism  combined. 

At  the  head  of  these  men  stands  Henry  W.  Bellows. 
At  the  head,  by  force  of  character,  by  boldness  of 
deed,  by  outspokenness  of  language,  by  his  talent  and 
learning,  by  his  position  as  the  teacher  of  a  metropo 
litan  aggregation,  distinguished  for  wealth,  refinement, 
and  social  influence.  His  talent  and  learning,  let  me 
add  his  taste,  are  more  than  considerable,  are  dis 
tinguished.  As  he  seems  to  many  to  have  attained  a 
just  medium  in  matters  of  higher  moment,  so  in  the 
culture  of  his  intellect  and  the  practice  of  his  art.  He 
is  profoundly  philosophical  in  the  cast  of  his  mind,  and 
yet  eminently  practical  in  the  application  of  his  infer 
ences.  An  original  thinker,  he  has  enriched  himself 
with  stores  of  the  soundest  learning  and  most  generous 


li6  The  Vagabond. 

culture.  Logic  holds  a  higher  place  in  his  esteem  than 
rhetoric,  and  his  first  care  is  to  convince;  but  he  dis 
dains  not  to  persuade  and  please.  He  is,  however,  more 
anxious  to  affect  your  reason  than  your  other  powers.  It 
is  the  sound  deductions  of  his  fine  intellect  that  compel 
your  assent ;  it  is  the  exact  appreciation  of  events  and 
character  that  extorts  your  concurrence;  it  is  the  well- 
balanced  mind  that  advances  his  ideas  with  vigor,  that 
sets  them  forth  with  effect,  that  provides  him  with  argu 
ments  often  incontrovertible,  and  enables  him  to  arrive  at 
conclusions  from  which  it  is  impossible  for  his  hearers  to 
recede.  A  scholar,  versed  in  the  lore  of  ancient  and  of 
modern  schools,  he  is  yet  free  from  prejudice  or  pe 
dantry;  a  philosopher,  he  is  willing  to  examine  the 
systems  of  others,  and  find  good  in  all,  though  not  the 
good  he  is  in  search  of.  Though  heartily  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  his  doctrine,  and  earnestly  desirous  to  set 
forth  its  merits,  he  extends  a  Christian  and  courteous 
f  )rbearance  to  all,  and  is  the  farthest  possible  from  dog 
matism  or  arrogance  in  the  enunciation  of  what  he  be 
lieves  to  be  true. 

But  he  is  also  far  from  neglecting  the  graces  of  style. 
His  taste  is  as  cultivated  as  his  profounder  powers  ; 
his  rhetoric  at  once  chaste  and  ornate,  correct  and  ele 
gant,  his  command  of  language  ample  and  exceedingly 
felicitous,  he  unites  the  so  often  opposite  qualities  of 
strength  and  beauty.  Lectorem  delectando,  pariterque 
monendo.  His  style  must  at  once  engage  the  attention 
of  the  indifferent  and  secure  the  approbation  of  dis 
criminating  listeners ;  he  frequently  rises  to  the  splendid, 
both  in  thought  and  expression,  and  knows  how  to 
descend  without  shocking  the  most  fastidious.  Touches 


Henry  W.  Bellows.  117 

of  true  and  tender  pathos,  though  rare,  are  not  al 
together  wanting  in  his  sermons,  and  contrast  finely 
with  occasional  bursts  of  elaborate  oratory.  However, 
he  uses  with  a  sparing  hand  these  shining  gifts. 

If  there  is  any  lack  felt  in  his  discourse,  it  is  that  of 
a  burning,  passionate,  overwhelming  eloquence.  He 
never  is  inspired ;  he  never  carries  you  away ;  he  is  not 
of  the  impetuous,  emotional  order.  There  are  times 
and  places  when  a  torrent  of  living,  breathing  words, 
or  a  soul-stirring,  trumpet-like  appeal  to  the  conscience 
or  heart,  would  be  more  effective  than  all  his  calmly 
considered  and  carefully  expressed  deductions.  Though 
such  emotions  as  eloquence  excites  are,  with  me,  more 
transitory  at  least  in  their  effects,  they  are,  for  the  time, 
more  exquisite  than  the  approving  interest  which  my 
judgment  always  dictates  in  Dr.  Bellows's  discourses. 
The  ecstasy  which  superlative  eloquence  awakens,  the 
magnetic  thrill,  the  spell-bound  attention,  are  effects 
unknown  to  his  audiences.  Once  or  twice  I  have  known 
him  touch  nerves  that  go  close  to  the  heart ;  but  gene 
rally,  he  is  no  master  of  the  feelings.  He  speaks  to 
the  intellect  and  taste.  Whether  the  preacher  should 
not  rather  address  these  than  the  heart,  one  might 
doubt,  did  we  not  know  how  powerful  a  motive  passion 
is  in  influencing  human  character.  Now  Dr.  Bel 
lows  is  the  most  convincing  of  orators,  because  the 
most  dispassionate. 

On  the  whole,  few  speakers  give  me  more  unalloyed 
pleasure :  some  of  those  more  highly  gifted,  at  least 
gifted  with  the  more  striking  talents  which  subdue  and 
move  the  masses,  educated  and  uneducated,  some  of 
these  frequently  err  in  matters  of  taste,  occasionally 


ll8  The  Vagabond. 

shock  your  notions  of  propriety,  or  offend  you  by  the 
appearance  of  insincerity.  But  if  Dr.  Bellows  never 
reaches  the  heights  of  the  true  sublime,  neither  does 
he  ever  sink  to  the  depths  of  affectation,  showy  rant,  or 
stupid  insipidity.  If  there  were  more  orthodox  preach 
ers  of  his  stamp,  the  number  of  those  who  dissent  from 
their  teachings  would  diminish,  though  not  perhaps 
disappear.  If  all  the  advocates  of  other  doctrines  were 
like  him,  the  ineffectual  fires  of  orthodoxy  might  pale. 
Yet  truth  does  not  depend  for  a  lasting  triumph  upon 
the  efforts  of  friends  or  foes ;  and  though  in  the  din  of 
the  contest  her  voice  be  lost,  it  is  never  stilled — though 
"  crushed  to  earth,  the  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers." 
The  recent  address  of  Dr.  Bellows  before  the  Ameri 
can  Dramatic  Fund  Society  illustrates  at  once  his  talent 
and  his  character.  It  is  marked  by  the  peculiarities  of 
the  man ;  but  it  has  a  further  significance  when  consi 
dered  in  reference  to  the  times.  Its  author  is  a  representa 
tive  man ;  he  has  done  an  unusual  thing ;  he,  the  ecclesi 
astical  descendant  of  the  Puritans,  has  preached  in  a  play 
house  and  to  players,  on  the  stage  in  behalf  of  the  stage. 
He  has  said  severe  things  aboxit  the  profession,  plainly 
and  to  their  faces,  and  members  of  it  have  gone  up  to 
him  and  congratulated  him  afterwards ;  he  has  stretched 
a  kindly  hand  to  those  with  whom  his  own  calling 
has  been  at  war  so  long,  and  that  hand  is  quickly  and 
warmly  grasped,  showing  that  there  is  no  need  for  the 
fancied  antagonism.  He  has  perhaps  inaugurated  a 
revolution ;  he  has  taken  the  first  step  which  costs  so 
much  ;  St.  Denis  can  now  walk  with  his  head  in  his 
hand.  He  has  recognised  the  theatre  as  a  fact ;  he  has 
treated  the  drama  as  a  practical  man  should,  as  a  politic 


Henry  W.  Bellows.  119 

preacher  should,  as  a  real  philanthropist  should.  It 
exists,  and  centuries  of  abuse  and  enmity  from  the 
"  unco'  guid  "  have  availed  nothing  against  it ;  it  flaunts 
itself  in  'their  faces  to-day  as  proudly  as  ever.  What 
they  cannot  ignore  or  destroy,  Dr.  Bellows  proposes  to 
reform ;  to  praise  where  praise  is  due,  to  censure  where 
censure  should  be  bestowed.  An  instinct  so  ineradica 
ble,  a  passion  so  lasting,  a  taste  so  universal  as  that  of 
the  race  for  the  drama,  must  be  intended  by  God  for 
good.  Let  us  get  the  good  out  of  it. 

I  call  him  a  wise  man.     I  am  willing  to  fight  under 
his  banners  in  this  crusade. 


AMERICAN    ART. 

"The  Art  itself  is  Nature." 

Winter's  Tale. 

I  HAVE  been  several  times,  of  late,  to  see  the  young 
genius  who  is  playing  at  Burton's  theatre,  and  have 
recognised  in  his  performances  the  indescribable  and 
unattainable  influence,  which  I  confess  I  seek  for  in  life 
and  art  under  their  various  phases ;  that  alone  which 
subdues  the  educated  and  the  illiterate,  the  old  and  the 
young,  the  cold  and  the  impulsive.  I  have  felt  the 
power  of  genius.  To  be  sure,  you  sometimes  have  to 
sit  through  an  act  for  the  sake  of  one  touch,  or  one 
point ;  but  when  the  time  comes  it  is  transcendant,  it 
goes  straight  home,  it  compensates.  Young  Booth  has 
the  unmistakable  fire,  the  electric  spark,  the  god-like 
quality,  which  mankind  have  agreed  to  worship.  The 
vein  is  with  him  just  struck,  but  there  is  a  mine  behind ; 
the  workman  is  raw,  and  his  tools  unwonted,  but  he  is 
young,  and  all  the  more  interesting  just  now  from  his 
faults ;  they  so  evidently  spring  from  inexperience,  they 
are  so  palpably  negative,  they  are  so  curable,  that  they 
enlist  your  sympathies,  while  four  or  five  times  in  an 
evening  he  does  something  that  requires  no  sympathy, 
no  allowance,  no  toleration ;  that  commands,  controls, 
overwhelms. 


American  Art.  121 

The  young  man  is  but  twenty-three,  handsome,  grace 
ful,  with  a  countenance  full  of  a  higher  beauty  than  that 
of  outline,  full  of  expression,  and  mobile  as  any  that  I 
have  ever  watched  ;  with  an  eye,  fitting  window  to  the 
soul  that  looks  out  through  it ;  a  voice  musical  and 
powerful  and  manageable  ;  with  an  impulsive,  soul-full 
nature,  that  prompts  such  strokes  as  the  rendering  of 
the  line  in  "Richard  III.:" 

"  What  do  they  in  the  north, 
"When  they  should  serve  their  sovereign  in  the  west  ?  ;1 

or  the  tone  in  which  he  calls  the  ghost  in  "  Hamlet," 
"  Father !"  or  the  look  that  comes  over  his  face  in 
"  Romeo,"  after  he  has  killed  Tybalt.  These  things  are 
alone  enough  to  stamp  his  mettle,  are  such  as  no  amount 
of  labor  and  pains  would  enable  an  actor  to  do,  as  mark 
the  great  and  impassable  gulf  for  ever  fixed  between  such 
as  Booth  and  the  clever,  careful  students,  even  (I  dare 
say  it)  like  Wallack  and  Davenport.  Of  course,  he 
slurs  over  lines  that  they  read  elegantly ;  of  course,  he 
is  unequal  Avhile  they  are  finished ;  of  course,  he  is 
rough  and  they  are  smooth  ;  but  give  me  one  touch  of 
real  feeling,  one  breath  of  absolute  genius,  one  spark  of 
enthusiasm  before  all  the  finish,  all  the  elaboration,  all 
the  study  in  the  world.  I  do  not,  I  am  sure,  inappre- 
ciate  or  undervalue  culture,  but  there  is  something 
higher,  truer,  realler.  I  certainly  am  far  from  con 
temning  care  or  study,  but  some  things  these  cannot 
accomplish  ;  something  says  to  them  :  "  So  far  shall  ye 
go,  and  no  farther."  This  is  not  said  to  Edwin  Booth ; 
there  is  no  Rubicon  he  may  not  pass  ;  there  are,  how- 

6 


122  The  Vagabond. 

ever,  many  for  him  yet  to  cross.     He  is  undeveloped, 
chaotic,  plastic. 

He  is  the  type  of  American  art ;  he  symbolizes  the 
dawn,  whose  first  streaks  appear  in  the  horizon.  Every 
thing  in  art,  here,  is  yet  unformed,  but  the  spirit  of 
God  has  moved  on  the  waters ;  and  there  is  a  struggle, 
a  quickening  in  the  womb,  that  betokens  life,  a  faint 
cry  that  shall  yet  grow  into  an  aspiration,  a  few  signifi 
cant  attempts  that  shall  yet  be  successes.  All  American 
art  is  of  this  nature,  is  impulsive,  erratic,  irregular,  but 
yet  full  of  promise  and  undeveloped  power.  I  confess, 
I  do  not  agree  with  those  who  see  nothing  to  hope  for 
in  American  art,  because  it  has  not  received  the  last 
degree  of  polish,  or  the  final  touch  of  the  master.  I  am 
not  so  disheartened  as  those  who  seek  for  evenness  of 
elaboration,  but  will  not  discern  true  touches  of  nature. 
Of  course,  America  has  yet  produced  no  Rachel,  no 
Milton,  no  Mozart,  nor  is  she  likely  soon  to  do  so  ;  but 
the  stammerings  of  the  infant  muses  are  heard ;  not 
unlike  those  that  whispered  centuries  ago  in  Greece,  as 
unmistakable  as  the  numbers  that  preceded  Homer,  as 
the  strivings  of  Perugino  who  preceded  Raphael,  as 
musical  as  the  utterings  of  Cimarosa,  who  came  before 
Mozart. 

Neither  do  I  think  that  American  art  will  ever 
assume  the  form  which  some  are  looking  for,  and 
because  they  do  not  find,  declare  it  has  no  form :  it  will 
be  turbulent  and  impassioned,  even  when  developed  ; 
not  divinely  calm,  but  intensely  human ;  not  the  divinity 
enthroned  on  Olympus,  but  the  incarnate  one  that  suf 
fers,  ajid  feels,  and  is  tempted.  The  intimations  already 
given  assure  us  of  this :  the  artists  whom  America  has 


American  Art.  123 

already  produced,  the  most  individualized,  tho  most 
generally  recognised,  the  most  powerful,  Lave  been 
emotional,  brimful  of  earnestness,  perhaps  even  stormy. 
In  music,  Gottschalk  indicates  the  difference  between 
European  art,  the  digest  of  centuries,  and  American,  the 
product  of  a  young  people.  Thalberg  and  Gottschalk, 
both  as  composers  and  artists,  fitly  symbolize  the  cha 
racters  of  foreign  and  native  genius :  the  one  calm, 
collected,  Jove-like,  the  other  stirring,  electric,  Apollo. 
So,  too,  Miss  Heron,  the  genius  who  crushes  out  criti 
cism,  and  sets  coldness  itself  on  fire,  who  forces  you  to 
feel  though  you  may  not  admire,  who  gathers  up  all  the 
strings  of  your  nature  in  her  grasp,  and  tightens  or 
sweeps  them  at  once,  is  certainly  American  in  her  enthu 
siastic,  excitable  style.  Even  our  painters  catch  the 
spirit,  and  Mr.  Church  has  embodied  it  in  his  "  Niagara," 
perhaps  the  finest  picture  yet  done  by  an  American; 
at  least,  that  which  is  fullest  of  feeling.  The  idea  of 
motion  he  has  imparted  to  his  canvass,  the  actual  feeling 
you  have  of  the  tremble  of  the  fall,  of  the  glancing  of 
the  sunbeam,  of  the  tossing  of  the  rapids,  of  the  waving 
of  the  rainbow,  of  the  whirling  of  the  foam,  of  the  mad 
rush  of  the  cataract,  I  take  to  be  the  great  excellence 
of  his  production  ;  and  surely  this  is  akin  to  the  in 
fluence  which  I  describe  as  paramount  in  American 
art. 

Neither  is  this  influence  to  be  decried  as  altogether 
hasty  and  uneducated,  or  unformed.  It  is  not  only  the 
fruit  of  ill-digested  thought,  it  is  not  only  the  rapid 
utterance  of  youth,  the  boastful,  coarse  excitement  of 
ignorance.  If  it  is  inspired  by  Niagara,  it  is  grand  and 
sublime  ;  it  is  natural  to  the  nation,  since  nature  herself 


124  The  Vagabond. 

lias  given  us  such  a  type ;  it  is  wild  and  ungovernable, 
mad  at  times,  but  all  power  is  terrible  at  times.  It  is 
the  effect  of  various  causes  ;  it  is  a  true  development  of 
American  mind ;  the  result  of  democracy,  of  individu 
ality,  of  the  expansion  of  each,  of  the  liberty  allowed 
to  all ;  of  ineradicable  and  lofty  qualities  in  human  na 
ture.  It  is  inspired  not  only  by  the  irresistible  cataract, 
but  by  the  mighty  forest,  by  the  thousand  miles  of 
river,  by  the  broad  continent  we  call  our  own,  by  the 
onward  march  of  civilization,  by  the  conquering  of 
savage  areas ;  characteristic  alike  of  the  western  back 
woodsman,  of  the  Arctic  explorer,  the  souther* 
fillibuster,  and  the  northern  merchant.  So,  of  course,  it 
gets  expression  in  our  art. 

Not  in  ours  only.  Let  those  who  utterly  condemn  it 
look  abroad :  see  how  Verdi's  music  has  usurped  a  place 
in  the  opera-houses  of  Europe,  and  holds  sway  over  the 
universal  musical  taste  of  the  world.  Let  them  bethink 
them  of  Turner's  pictures,  undoubtedly  stamped  with  the 
same  impress,  burning,  speaking,  instinct  with  this  same 
feeling  which  I  strive  to  indicate.  Let  them  acknow 
ledge  in  the  intensity  of  modern  fiction,  in  the  dramas 
of  Dumas  and  the  novels  of  Dudevant,  in  the  terse, 
vigorous  works  of  Charlotte  Bronte  and  Carlisle,  of 
Kingsley  and  Tennyson,  something  of  the  nineteenth 
century  spirit,  directed  and  guided,  perhaps,  to  better 
advantage  by  those  who  have  been  at  school  for  ages, 
but  more  unmistakably  uttered  here,  more  openly 
avowed,  more  absolutely  expressed.  What  if  our  art, 
then,  is  in  its  infancy :  it  is  at  least  born  into  the  world. 
We  way  wish  it  had  already  attained  perfection ;  we 
may  relish  with  a  more  delicate  taste  the  exquisite  pro- 


American  Art.  125 

ductions  of  the  older  world ;  but  let  us  not  entirely  de 
spise  the  first  fruits  of  this  western  Atlantis. 

Instead  of  decrying  whatever  has  the  mark  of  pecu 
liarity,  the  freshness  of  flavor,  the  smell  of  the  pine- 
woods,  the  raciness,  the  heartiness  of  youth  and  strength, 
would  it  not  be  better  to  recognise  and  appreciate  what 
of  good  there  is,  and  develop,  and  train,  and  culture  it 
into  perfection  ?  Instead  of  being  angry  with  Palmer 
because  he  dared  deviate  from  classic  models  of  beauty, 
let  us  encourage  him  to  embody  the  forms  of  loveliness 
flitting  in  his  brain  ;  let  us  prefer  Indian  girls  to  Greek 
slaves,  American  originals  to  copies  of  old  and  effete 
ideas. 

In  his  profound  and  interesting  volume  on  America 
and  Europe,  Count  Gurowski  comments  upon  many  of 
our  national  peculiarities,  but,  to  my  mind,  discusses 
matters  of  art  with  more  skill  than  questions  of  races ; 
at  any  rate,  arrives  at  conclusions  in  those  domains  with 
which  I  can  more  readily  concur,  and  in  particular  enun 
ciates  this  idea,  that  the  accord  with  culture  and  study 
of  the  inspiration  conferred  by  genius  is  the  problem  of 
our  epoch.  Kingsley  also,  in  "  Two  Years  Ago,"  declares 
that  art  is  not  only  imitation,  not  only  the  fruit  of  labor, 
neither  only  the  plenary  inspiration,  but  the  union,  the 
marriage  of  the  highest  nature  with  the  last  results  of 
culture.  I  accept  the  dictum,  and  believe  that  Ameri 
can  art  will  solve  the  problem.  It  seems  to  me  to  pos 
sess  the  inspiration  :  the  culture  can  be  attained. 

Here  of  course  is  the  lack.  The  genius  is  not  gene 
rally  nor  sufficiently  appreciated.  Materialism  has  too 
great  weight  with  us.  The  beautiful  maxim  of  Goethe 
is  more  applicable  to  us  than  to  any  other  civilized  na- 


126  The  Vagabond. 

tion  :  "  Take  care  of  the  beautiful,  for  the  useful  will 
take  care  of  itself."  We  do  not,  as  a  nation,  take  care 
of  the  beautiful.  The  artists  are  not  cherished,  the  arts 
are  not  fostered ;  but  improvement  is  visible  even  in 
these  matters.  A  keener  relish,  a  livelier  interest  is 
awakened  for  art :  its  influence  spreads,  the  circles  widen 
daily,  like  the  eddies  in  a  pool.  I  think  I  detect  an  in 
creasing  consideration  for  such  things.  When  I  remem 
ber  the  kindly  feeling  evinced  for  Mrs.  de  Wilhorst ;  when 
I  recall  the  brilliant  crowds  that  greeted  her  first  at 
tempts  ;  when  I  reflect  that  the  Academy  of  Music  was 
offered  her  free  of  rent  for  her  benefit ;  when  I  hear  that 
the  subscription  list  for  her  farewell  concerts  is  filled 
with  distinguished  names,  and  that  it  is  in  contempla 
tion  to  offer  her  a  substantial  token  of  goodwill,  in  still 
another  fonn,  on  the  eve  of  her  departure,  and  thus  mate 
rially  assist  her  endeavors,  I  think  that  some  progress  is 
made  or  making.  When  I  remember  how  instantly  Miss 
Heron's  genius  was  recognised,  although  exclusively 
American,  and,  in  its  excellences,  unlike  that  of  foreign 
schools  ;  when  I  remember  the  audiences  that  attended 
the  first  nights  of  "  Fascination"  and  "  Leonore"  last 
winter  ;  when  I  think  of  the  appreciation  of  Gottschalk, 
I  say  that  American  art  will  not  always  languish.  I 
hope  for  the  day  when  those  whose  tastes  and  faculties 
are  cultured  by  study  and  travel,  by  intercourse  with 
the  gifted,  and  opportunities  of  witnessing  the  best  in 
the  various  domains  of  art,  will  not  unnaturally  turn  from 
what  is  American,  because  it  is  not  perfect ;  when  they 
will  blow  every  spark  of  genius  into  a  flame  ;  when  they 
will  gladly  foster  our  own  art ;  when  Mr.  Fry's  "  Leo 
nora"  shall  be  sung  at  the  New  York  opera-house,  and 


American  Art.  127 

Mr.  Jacopi,  the  American  tenor,  shall  think  it  better 
policy  not  to  Italianize  his  name.  Meanwhile,  the  millen- 
ium  is  not  yet  arrived ;  but,  as  the  comet  approaches, 
we  must  make  haste  in  what  we  have  to  do,  so  I  shall 
go  to  see  Booth  every  night  next  week,  and  visit  the 
Academy  of  Design  every  day. 


AMERICAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


"  Quid  ego,  et  populus  mecum,  desideret." 

HORACE. 


AT  last  we  have  American  plays.  Several  times,  of 
late,  our  managers  have  presented,  with  commendable 
care,  the  productions  of  American  authors,  or  the  repre 
sentations  of  American  life.  The  stage  seems  about  to 
assume  its  ancient  office,  to  become  again  the  censor 
of  the  people,  and  the  picture  of  the  times.  Hitherto, 
our  audiences  have  been  content  with  the  performance 
of  English  comedies,  or  tragedies  whose  tone  and 
coloring  were  altogether  of  another  date  and  era  from 
our  own.  True,  indeed,  passion  is  cosmopolite,  and  all 
men  are  akin  at  one  stroke  of  nature.  We  weep  over 
the  woes  of  Virginia,  or  are  indignant  at  the  wrongs  of 
Othello,  quite  as  quickly  as  if  the  Moor  or  the  Roman 
were  native  here  and  to  our  manner  born.  True,  too, 
there  is  a  charm  in  these  pictures  of  other  days  and 
other  times,  like  that  of  reading  Walter  Scott's  novels 
or  Macaulay's  histories.  I  am  no  advocate  for  banish 
ing  Congreve  and  Sheridan  from  our  modern  stage.  I, 
too,  delight  in  classic  tragedies.  But  the  theatre  has 
yet  another  mission  ;  it  has  to  speak  to  us  of  to-day  ; 
to  lash  our  follies,  to  portray  our  life,  to  show  us  how 
we  of  the  nineteenth  century  live  and  love  and  hate  : 


American  Playwrights.  129 

for  there  are  traits  in  modern  life  as  susceptible  of 
humorous  portraiture  as  any  that  caught  the  eye  of 
Wicherly  or  Fielding  in  the  days  of  merry  Charles  or 
stupid  Anne  ;  there  are  incidents  and  characters  around 
us  as  full  of  passion  and  pathos  as  those  which  engaged 
the  pens  of  Sophocles  or  Racine.  We  are  men  still,  and 
our  nature  is  unchanged.  The  harvest  is  plentiful,  but 
the  laborers  are  few. 

I  accept  gladly,  then,  the  indications  of  a  new  day 
dawning  upon  our  stage.  I  am  glad  to  see  the  first 
fruits  gathered  from  so  rich  a  field,  and  to  read  in  the 
bills  "  Never  before  acted,"  and  "  Written  expressly  for 
this  theatre."  The  very  tendency  to  imitation  of 
French  dramas,  which  has  its  repulsive  features,  has 
also  something  of  good  in  it.  For  these  French  plays 
are  at  least  modern.  They  describe  modern  life — phases 
of  modern  life,  it  is  true,  which  are  not  (here,  at  any 
rate,  thank  God !)  the  most  marked  or  characteristic  ; 
but  still  they  go  not  back  hundreds  of  years  for  their 
plots,  and  personages  and  scenes. 

In  this  light,  then,  I  see  great  merit  in  the  play  of 
"Fascination,"  now  or  recently  acted  at  Burt  m's  theatre. 
Apart  from  its  moral  tone,  upon  which  I  proffer  no 
comment,  it  possesses  this  striking  excellence  of  open 
ing  the  way  in  a  new  direction.  It  mirrors  real  life, 
holds  up  no  glass  that  distorts  the  features  reflected  in 
it,  presents  no  caricature,  but  pictures  society  of  this 
day.  Though  the  scene  is  laid  in  Italy,  the  people  are 
such  as  we  see  around  us ;  for,  in  fact,  well-bred  people 
are  as  much  alike  to  day  all  over  the  world  in  manners 
as  they  are  in  dress.  The  etiquettes  of  behavior  are  as 
widely  spread  as  the  fashions  of  boots  and  bonnets. 

6* 


130  The  Vagabond. 

And  how  delightful  to  see  society  pictured,  r,ot  tra 
vestied!  We  are  surfeited  with  the  satires  of  these 
would-be  Juvenals,  with  the  imitations  of  those  who 
have  never  seen  the  original.  A  picture  of  modern 
life,  where  princesses  are  not  vulgar  and  artists  not 
sycophants,  is  a  rarity  indeed  on  the  New  York 
boards. 

It  is  indeed  a  fact  that  "  Fascination  "  has  had  prede 
cessors  or  pioneers  in  this  path,  the  success  of  which  is 
good  proof  of  the  demand  which  exists.  How  many 
times  has  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons  "  been  played !  How 
hackneyed  is  "  The  Hunchback !"  And  yet  even  these 
are  not  so4  universal  in  their  interest  as  they  might  be, 
but  are  in  some  respects  provincial.  There  are  manner 
isms  about  them,  like  swaddling  clothes  entangling  the 
footsteps  of  the  infant  drama.  Still  their  popularity 
shows  how  quickly  any  public  recognises  the  attempt  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  its  own  nature. 

But  a  play  for  the  children  of  this  generation  should 
not  only  take  the  comparatively  untrodden  field  to 
which  I  have  alluded.  It  is  not  merely  the  province  of 
the  modern  stage  to  adapt  itself  in  scenes  and  characters 
to  modern  life,  and  thus  imitate  the  novel  which  has  so 
completely  dethroned  the  old-fashioned  romance ;  for 
who  now  reads  "  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  except  as  a  curiosity 
or  an  historical  picture  ?  Even  the  "  Spectator"  is  set 
aside  by  the  many  for  "Jane  Eyre"  and  "The  New- 
comes."  None  but  students  penetrate  into  the  literature 
of  a  bygone  century.  Each  age  has  its  writers,  each 
age  must  have  its  o\yn  plays.  Our  stage  is  for  us  ;  and 
as  we  live  intensely,  the  stage  must  furnish  intense 
scenes.  It  must  reflect  not  only  our  character  and  tone 


American  Playwrights.  131 

of  mind,  but  our  passions  and  our  manifestations  of  pas 
sion.  Americans  are  proverbially  excitable  and  excite 
ment-loving.  They  find  "The  Rivals"  slow,  and  care 
not  to  go  every  week  to  see  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer ;" 
while  "  Camille,''  with  all  its  impropriety,  draws  for  an 
entire  season ;  not  because  of  its  impropriety,  but  be 
cause  of  its  intensity.  The  interest  of  "  Fascination"  is 
not  heightened  because  its  heroine  is  a  wanton.  I  can 
conceive  alterations  in  the  plot  which  should  obviate 
the  objections  which  have  been  urged  against  its  mo 
rality,  and  yet  leave  the  excellencies  untouched.  There 
is  fearful,  fascinating  intensity  enough  in  life  without 
resorting  to  purlieus  and  characters  that  we  blush  to 
name. 

Neither  is  it  your  bloody  melodramatic  pieces  which 
are  destined  eventually  to  bear  the  palm.  The  "  Stran 
ger"  and  the  "Lady  of  Lyons"  excite  as  many  tears  as 
if  they  murdered  their  mistresses,  or  went  mad  them 
selves.  The  George  Barnwells  and  Jack  Sheppards  have 
had  their  day.  Passion  seeks  other  manifestations,  now, 
than  it  did  in  the  days  of  the  Borgias.  Lovers  do  not 
carry  off  beautiful  maidens  by  force  and  arms,  even  on 
the  highways  of  Italy.  The  poison  and  the  dagger  are 
not  among  the  ordinary  furnishings  of  gentlemen's  cup 
boards  and  wardrobes.  All  this  sort  of  thing  is  as  com 
pletely  out  of  date  as  the  giants  and  enchanted  castles 
of  the  troubadours. 

But  a  drama  which  should  possess  the  eloquence  of 
George  Sand,  without  her  outrageous  violations  of  pro 
priety  ;  the  admirable  character-drawing  and  the  fervor 
of  French  fiction  generally,  with  the  purity  and  the  pro 
priety  of  the  English  sort,  would  inaugurate  a  new 


132  The  Vagabond. 

school.  A  modern  play,  based  on  modern  life,  with 
characters  such  as  can  be  seen  around  us;  incidents 
such  as  are  not  of  unusual  occurrence,  but  placed  in 
felicitous  juxtaposition  ;  an  interest  that  shall  not  flag — 
for  dulness  is  damnation  in  theatrical  parlance  ;  and 
situations  where  the  hideousness  of  vice  may  be  made 
apparent,  but  its  fascinations  need  not  be  so  minutely 
portrayed — such  is  the  ideal  of  a  Vagabond. 

It  is  hard,  doubtless,  to  discriminate  ;  to  draw  the  line 
between  proper  dulness  content  to  dwell  in  decencies 
for  ever,  and  the  flashy  melodramatic  style.  But  be 
tween  these  two  lies  an  unoccupied  province.  The 
unusual  skill  manifested  in  "Fascination,"  in  the  manage 
ment  of  incidents,  in  the  portrayal  of  character,  but 
especially  in  the  passionate  dialogue  of  some  scenes, 
shows  plainly  enough  that  there  is  dramatic  talent  in 
our  midst.  I  do  not  mean  to  present  this  piece  as  perfect 
in  evei-ything  but  plot ;  I  think  it  has  other  faults.  The 
catastrophe  is  badly  contrived,  and  there  are  portions  of 
the  play  that  drag  ;  but  the  language  is  everywhere  easy 
and  terse,  and  the  third  act  is  absolutely  superb.  The 
excellencies  that  are  prominent  are  the  very  ones  most 
desirable  in  the  class  of  productions  that  I  call  for,  and 
that  there  is  a  need  for.  The  play  itself  I  regard  as  a  sig 
nificant  attempt,  a  feeling  after  the  right.  Whether  the 
authors  are  the  men  destined  to  fill  the  vacancy  which 
exists ;  to  achieve  the  success  that  will  certainly  be 
attained  by  some  one,  remains  to  be  seen.  Men  some 
times  make  one  effort,  and  place  themselves  near  where 
they  would  be,  but  failing  of  a  complete  triumph,  never 
attempt  again.  Men  sometimes  exhaust  themselves  in  a 
single  endeavor,  and  their  after  trials  are  but  repetitions. 


American  Playwrights.  133 

Others,  who  do  but  poorly  at  the  outset,  subsequently 
eclipse  all  rivals.  Many  a  playwright  has  failed  at  first : 
even  Dr.  Johnson's  "Irene"  was  damned.  Byron  was 
not  the  only  poet  whose  "  Hours  of  Idleness "  was 
twaddle,  nor  "Wordsworth  the  only  writer  of  whom  the 
reviewers  declared,  "  This  will  never  do." 

The  critics  have  united  of  late — I  mean  the  thinking, 
careful  critics — in  censuring  some  attempts  at  portray 
ing  American  society ;  and  I  confess  these  so-called 
American  plays  have  gross  and  glaring  faults.  But  still 
they,  too,  betoken  this  necessity ;  they,  too,  strive  to 
answer  this  call,  and  are  indications  of  the  craving  that 
exists.  We  are  waiting  for  our  Menander  and  Aristo 
phanes.  We  want  our  Moliere.  The  pool  is  troubled, 
but  no  man  steps  in.  These  writers  Avho  have  carica 
tured  us  have  done  something  :  Guido  di  Senna  and 
Perugino  came  before  Raphael.  They  who  have  paraded 
events  which  have  occurred  in  families,  though  they 
made  manifest  their  own  barrenness  of  invention,  yet 
showed  observation ;  and,  in  some  instances,  characters 
have  been  drawn  nicely  and  carefully.  There  is  room  for 
comedy  as  well  as  for  profounder  dramas.  The  sock  need 
not  tread  upon  the  buskin's  heel ;  and  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Burton  has  pictures  of  both  Tragedy  and  Comedy  over 
his  door.  But,  in  this  millennium  of  the  stage  for  which 
I  am  waiting,  and  which  Dr.  Bellows  will  probably  pre 
dict  when  lie  addresses  the  theatrical  profession ;  in  this 
dramatic  Atlantis,  to  rise  out  of  the  waters,  Melpomene 
will,  I  fancy,  preserve  her  ancient  supremacy,  and  plays 
of  passion  be  preferred  to  plays  of  manners.  These  are 
evanescent  in  interest  as  the  fashions  they  portray: 
those  are  lasting  as  the  nature  of  man. 


134  The  Vagabond. 

But  both  will  be  welcome.  Meanwhile,  let  u&  appre 
ciate  what  of  good  the  gods  provide,  and  not  go  hungry 
because  we  cannot  dine  on  ambrosia,  or  even  on  pdte  de 
foie  gras. 


PARTIES. 

"  Fashion  and  Ceremony." 

Samlet. 

SOME  people  are  never  weary  of  condemning  the 
parties  of  New  York.  They  are  continually  talking  of 
the  frivolity  of  fashion,  and  the  dulness  of  dancing.  To 
hear  them,  you  would  suppose  they  preferred  books  to 
belles  and  beaux,  and  the  armchair  to  the  opera.  Yet, 
I  constantly  see  these  critics  in  the  rooms  they  say  are  so 
hot  and  crowded  ;  I  constantly  meet  them  at  the  parties 
they  call  so  stupid,  and  talk  with  them  at  the  concerts 
where  the  singing  is  so  bad.  Those  who  affect  the  pro- 
foundest  contempt  for  American  amusements,  who 
declare  the  Bachelors'  Ball  cannot  be  compared  with 
Almack's,  who  ridicule  the  opera,  and  think  nothing 
endurable  after  a  winter  in  Paris — these  never  stay  away 
when  they  get  cards ;  they  dance  the  latest  at  a  German, 
and  are  out  every  night  in  the  season.  Despite  the 
affectation  of  not  being  interested  in  society,  they  have 
been  faithful  to  every  little  musical  soiree  during  the 
warm  weather,  and  crowded  to  every  wedding,  even  if 
they  had  to  go  in  the  morning,  and  stay  but  an  hour. 
Even  on  Sundays,  they  go  to  a  reception,  and  they  keep 
up  their  parties  in  June.  The  truth  is,  there  is  scarcely 
more  frivolity  in  New  York  society  than  in  any  other  ; 
the  diary  of  a  person  of  fashion  in  Fielding's  days  would 


136  The  Vagabond. 

answer  for  one  now;  the  fine  gentleman  in  Joseph 
Andrews  killed  time  nearly  in  the  same  manner  as  his 
modern  rival  in  the  new  world ;  and  though  Addison's 
Clorindas  and  Coquetillas  received  in  bed,  and  wore 
patches,  both  which  modes  are  just  now  out  of  vogue, 
they  crowded  to  the  play  as  ours  do  to  the  opera,  and 
wore  hoops  and  fluttered  fans  exactly  in  the  style  that  is 
to-day  all  the  rage.  Not  only  in  passing  fashions,  how 
ever,  can  resemblances  be  traced,  but  the  topics  of  con 
versation,  the  matter  as  well  as  the  manner,  remains 
the  same.  English  folk  of  consideration,  according  to 
Thackeray,  slander  their  neighbors,  and  discuss  their 
dearest  friends  with  as  much  freedom  as  is  ever  known 
in  New  York  drawing-rooms;  and  if  you  believe  De 
Sevigne,  the  marquises  of  Louis  XIV.'s  time  were  as 
devoted  to  dress,  and  lived  as  much  with  the  senses 
and  for  the  senses,  as  the  shallowest  of  the  newest 
people  up  town. 

And  it  must  be  always  so.  You  cannot  expect  very 
profound  remarks  at  a  ball.  In  a  room  full  of  people, 
where  you  know  fifty,  there  is  neither  time  nor  opportu 
nity  to  do  more  than  emulate  Belinda  in  the  "Rape 
of  the  Lock,"  or  Flutter,  in  the  play.  If  the  Vaga 
bond  should  meet  Norah  at  a  German,  and  begin  dis 
cussing  pictures  or  the  characteristics  of  woman,  while 
she  was  waiting  her  turn  in  the  dance,  she  would  cer 
tainly  consider  him  a  stupid  vagabond,  and  wish  him 
as  far  off  as  the  picture  gallery  at  least.  I  have  heard 
the  finest  scholars  and  the  profoundest  men  of  the  country 
talk  some  of  the  most  delightful  nonsense  imaginable ; 
gossip  with  a  charmer  about  the  probabilities  of  a  new 
opera,  and  even  spice  a  little  scandal  into  their  talk  of 


Parties.  1 37 

the  latest  marriage  d  la  mode,  or  the  next  fortune  to  be 
thrown  into  the  market.  And  I  thought  they  showed 
their  good  sense.  He  who  proses  in  the  entr'actes  of  an 
opera  or  a  quadrille,  who  discusses  phrenology,  as  I  have 
heard  some,  at  a  supper  table,  or  introduces  disquisitions 
on  tragedy  between  the  morceaux  of  the  amateurs,  may 
be  very  wise  and  very  learned,  but  he  scarcely  shows 
his  taste  in  the  same  degree  with  his  learning. 

Then  the  chatter  and  gossip  are  positively  agreeable. 
One  likes  to  hear  who  next  is  to  be  married,  and  who  last 
was  rejected  ;  to  talk  over  the  last  party,  with  jits  con~ 
tretemps,  the  merits  of  the  dancers,  and  the  mistakes  of 
the  singers.  I,  at  any  rate,  relish  a  little  raillery ;  I  pre 
fer  a  visit  to  people  who,  having  eyes,  see  what  is  going 
on  around  them  ;  who  spy  out  the  ridiculous  and  laugh  at 
it ;  who  can  criticise  their  friends  without  abusing  them, 
and  censure  their  follies,  yet  own  all  their  merits.  I  make 
no  doubt  that  I  take  my  turn  ;  when  I  leave  a  delightful 
place  where  we  have  canvassed  our  entire  acquaintance, 
and  found  something  severe  to  say  of  each,  I  feel  like 
Sir  Peter  Teazle,  that  I'd  better  take  my  character  with 
me  ;  it  isn't  safe  from  inspection  if  left  behind.  But  if 
they  treat  me  well  to  my  face,  why  not  be  content  ? 
At  any  rate,  whether  I  am  or  not,  matters  little ;  my 
fate  is  the  same.  My  friends  discuss  me ;  the  world  will 
talk ;  they  say  how  poorly  I  dance,  or  how  stiffly  I 
bow ;  what  a  queer  coat  that  was ;  how  he  blushed 
when  Norah  was  talking ;  how  angry  he  was  because 
she  went  in  to  supper  with  somebody  else.  Let  them 
talk,  so  long  as  they  don't  absolutely  abuse  me ;  I  take 
my  share  with  the  rest,  and  I  assure  them,  I  have  my 
revenge,  in  kind. 


138  The  Vagabond. 

There's  one  charming  house  where  I'm  always  sure 
of  a  feast ;  where  wit  and  personality  make  the  talk  so 
piquant,  that  I  am  content  to  sit  by  as  a  listener ;  only 
when  the  subject  is  fairly  exhausted  I  start  another,  as 
you  poke  up  the  fire  that  is  burning  too  low.  There  I 
always  stay  too  long  in  the  morning,  and  go  too  often 
in  the  evening ;  there  I  never  send  a  regret,  and  am 
always  provoked  to  be  left  out;  and  there  the  talk 
is  not  often  heavy ;  it  is  refined,  and  even,  after  a 
fashion,  intellectual ;  that  is,  it  is  frivolous,  but  the  fri 
volity  is  such  as  only  intellectual  people  are  capable  of; 
trifles  are  handled  by  those  masters  of  the  art  of  hand 
ling  them,  and,  like  a  French  soup,  made  out  of  the  Lord 
knows  what,  your  entertainment  is  delightful  and 
piquant,  and  tempting  enough  to  the  most  sated  appe 
tite,  but  not  too  heavy  to  interfere  with  a  digestion  of 
the  substantial  viands  that  may  be  in  store. 

But  I  did  not  intend  to  ramble  off  into  a  dissertation 
on  fashionable  small-talk ;  parties  are  my  theme  to-day. 
Conversation  belongs  to  visits;  the  theatre  and  the 
picture-gallery  are  the  places  for  intellectual  gratifica 
tion  ;  operas  and  parties  are  social  occasions  where  see 
ing  and  being  seen,  meeting  those  you  know,  and  using 
your  eyes,  are  the  principal  objects.  Music  and  dancing, 
of  course,  and  supper,  must  not  be  forgotten  ;  they  con 
tribute  to  the  sum  total ;  but  what  people  go  for  is  not 
for  these.  At  any  rate,  the  opera  for  the  music,  the 
ball  for  dancing,  but  a  dinner  is  the  only  opportu 
nity  for  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  What  jus 
tice  can  be  done  to  a pdte  defoie  gras,  standing!  How 
can  yon  possibly  appreciate  Clos  Vougeot  as  you  swal 
low  do  TO  a  glass  hastily  between  handing  ices  to  Norah 


Parties.  139 

and  salad  to  X. !  You  might  even  confound  the  wines, 
and  in  your  hurry  take  Hock  for  Heidsick,  or  pour  out 
Chablis  into  a  champagne  glass.  Those  who  understand 
these  things,  never  attempt  to  indulge  under  such  cir 
cumstances  ;  a  deliberate  dinner  is  the  occasion  for  the 
delights  of  taste,  or  a  game  supper,  if  you  will ;  a 
wedding  collation,  or  a  stand-up  supper  after  a  dance, 
may  be  desirable  as  refreshment,  but  the  connois 
seurs  spurn  them.  This  reminds  me  that  I  do  not 
share  in  the  supreme  contempt  entertained  by  some  for 
an  epicure.  Every  other  sense  is  cultivated  to  a  high 
degree  of  perfection;  we  pique  ourselves  upon  the 
acuteness  of  the  ear,  upon  the  correctness  of  the  eye, 
why  not  educate  the  palate  as  well?  Why  not  enjoy  in 
their  perfection  the  subordinate  tastes  ?  They  are  more 
animal  indeed ;  but  man  is  part  animal,  and  may  as  well 
drain  every  drop  of  pleasure  in  his  cup,  all  the 
juice  from  the  orange,  all  the  honey  from  the  flower. 
I  am  not  too  etherial  to  relish  a  wine  or  a  pate  with 
considerable  zest ;  I  can  even  understand  the  wish 
of  Lucullus,  for  a  neck  as  long  as  a  crane's,  that  he 
might  protract  the  savoring  of  his  dainties ;  and  I  don't 
think  the  opera  less  exquisite  to  me,  or  the  play  less 
entrancing,  the  picture  less  beautiful,  or  the  book  less 
absorbing,  because  I  appreciate  purely  physical  delights 
of  a  gustatory  description.  All  things,  I  believe,  were 
given  us  richly  to  enjoy.  What  is  coarse  let  us  refine, 
what  is  good,  extract.  Goethe's  philosophy  was  not  so 
bad  as  it  is  the  fashion  now  to  say :  self-culture  in  all 
things  is  a  very  good  aim,  and  self-denial,  without  some 
ulterior  object  to  be  attained — I  know  nothing  of. 
But  the  parties.  They  may  be  divided  into  balls,  con- 


140  The  Vagabond. 

certs,  literary  receptions,  and  weddings.  The  first  have 
been  known  the  world  over,  and  will  last  for  ever. 
Philosophers  and  old  fogies  may  declaim  as  much  as 
they  please,  but  the  young  will  dance — young  New 
York  especially.  The  women  will  say  he  dances  like  an 
angel,  and  dancing  men  will  be  invited;  no  matter  how 
great  noodles  they  be ;  the  men  will  gaze  with  rapture 
at  the  exquisite  grace  of  the  fair  divinities  as  they 
whirl  in  the  maze ;  while  the  lucky  ones  that  whirl — 
who  shall  describe  their  pleasure  ?  Not  I.  Young  New 
York  is  celebrated  for  the  excellence  of  its  dancing. 
Mr.  Bristed  long  ago  made  famous  the  rage  for  the  polka 
in  Fraser's  Magazine  ;  and  that  waltz,  so  ugly  to  look  at, 
so  delightful  to  engage  in,  has  stood  its  ground  against 
all  the  moralists  for  a  decade.  Those  who  are  left  out 
are  apt  to  say  that  the  servants  of  Terpsichore  could 
worship  at  no  other  shrine ;  can  dance  but  not  talk. 
And  indeed  there  are  those  who  acquire  great  profi 
ciency  in  this  accomplishment,  but  are  not  good  for 
much  else.  Some  dames  are  glad,  they  say,  to  have 
dancing  and  bowing  acquaintances,  people  whom  they 
like  to  meet  at  the  opera  or  on  the  promenade,  whom 
they  are  delighted  to  polk  with,  but  are  sure  to  be 
not  at  home  if  they  call.  They  find  a  waltz  very  agree 
able  in  such  company,  but  could  not  endure  a  visit.  But 
if  you  think  all  the  good  dancers  are  fools,  my  friend, 
you  are  greatly  mistaken.  Some  of  the  most  brilliant 
people  dance  superbly ;  the  superiority  they  manifest  in 
one  thing  is  conspicuous  in  all. 

But  why  will  they  dance  the  German  ?  Of  all  the 
interminable  and  inextricable  inventions  that  ever  were 
known,  the  German  bears  the  palm.  And  they  dance 


Parties.  141 

it  with  so  much  gusto  ;  from  nine  to  one  without  a 
respite,  not  stopping  for  supper,  and  then  not  getting 
through;  not  approaching  the  end  of  those  three 
hundred  figures.  There  is  indeed  a  vague  tradition 
that  the  German  cotillion  was  once  danced  through  by 
a  set  as  indefatigable  as  the  dervishes  of  the  east  in 
their  saltatory  devotions ;  but  some  enterprising  youth 
forthwith  invented  new  figures,  and  when  the  band 
thought  themselves  arrived  at  a  termination,  Alps  upon 
Alps  arose.  Those  who  dance  this,  do  well  to  seclude 
themselves,  to  give  German  parties  where  nothing  else 
is  done ;  for  to  lookers-on  at  Vienna,  to  those  Avho  fear 
to  trust  themselves  in  the  never-ending  maze,  to  get 
down  on  their  knees  among  the  hoops,  to  wave  banners 
in  the  eyes  of  the  fair,  to  waltz  with  chairs  for  partners, 
tu  dance  under  a  nom  de  plume, — to  those  who  eschew 
all  this,  'tis  weary  enough.  But  the  German  has  the 
stamp  of  the  highest  fashion  ;  it  is  not  known  or  prac 
tised  outside  of  exclusive  circles,  and  until  it  reaches 
others,  it  will  be  the  rage.  If  the  Lanciers  could  be 
introduced,  I  am  sure  that  would  be  preferable.  True, 
it  is  not  so  difficult,  and  does  not  so  completely  taboo 
those  who  do  not  essay  it ;  but  the  gay  world  need  not 
hope  to  keep  its  favorite  long  to  itself;  all  its  modes  are 
imitated,  and  the  outsiders  will  take  even  the  pains  of 
learning  the  German  for  the  sake  of  doing  as  the  Ger 
mans  do.  And  when  outsiders  learn  that  dance,  the 
others  will  abandon  it.  Speed  the  day! 

I  have  scarce  left  myself  room  to  talk  of  the  private 
concerts,  which,  however,  I  have  already  discussed 
when  telling  of  the  amateurs ;  of  the  weddings  which, 
sooth  to  say,  are  dull ;  I  admit  all  that  the  spitefulest 


142  The  Vagabond. 

old  maid  can  say  of  them :  five  young  women  in  a  row, 
simpering  and  saying  the  same  fine  things  to  five  hun 
dred  people ;  five  young  men  for  ever  going  back  and 
forth  like  a  pendulum  between  the  door  and  the  bride ; 
five  hundred  people  puffing  and  perspiring — constitute 
a  wedding.  Music  and  a  table  of  presents,  and  a  table 
of  another  sort,  provide  some  sort  of  recreation ;  but 
every  wedding  is  like  every  other  one ;  two  people  are 
made  happy  and  half  a  thousand  miserable.  Literary 
soirees,  reading  parties,  private  theatricals,  tableaux, 
furnish  too  large  a  field  to  enter  upon  at  the  end  of  a 
paper.  Besides,  it  is  June,  and  the  day  for  these  things 
is  gone  by.  Society  is  like  the  auctioneer's  hammer — 
going — going — going  out  of  town.  The  Vagabond 
must  leave  his  P.  P.  C.'s. 


THE   BALLET. 

"When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that." 

Winter's  Tale. 

"TnE  drama  sprang  from  the  dance,  and  religion  has  not, 
in  all  ages,  disdained  the  aid  of  dancing  men  and  danc 
ing  women.  Many  are  wont  to  call  the  ballet  the  last 
and  most  artificial  refinement  of  modern  civilization ; 
the  very  highest  intoxication  of  pleasure;  the  rarest 
spice  in  the  cup,  the  maddest  flavor  in  the  wine  of  those 
to  whom  all  other  fascinations  have  palled.  But  though 
it  may  be  and  often  is,  as  seductive  as  any  of  the 
delights  of  sense,  it  is  far  from  being  one  peculiar  to 
the  nineteenth  century,  or  to  European  culture  and 
tastes.  The  choruses  that  ^Eschylus  trained  for  the 
stage,  the  satyric  dance,  or,  earlier  yet,  the  original 
worship  of  Bacchus,  when  women  remarkable  for 
beauty  and  grace  celebrated  the  rites  sacred  to  the  god 
of  wine  and  mirth,  bear  witness  to  the  early  passion 
for  this  amusement — a  passion  that  must  be  instinctive 
with  the  race,  since  it  has  appeared  alike  among  the 
classic  nations  of  antiquity,  in  the  barbaric  splendors 
of  oriental  harems,  and  amid  the  elaborate  elegance  of 
the  Parisian  opera. 


144  The  Vagabond. 

The  Greek  chorus  was  similar  in  many  things  to  the 
modern  ballet ;  the  measured  movement  common  in 
temple  and  theatre  among  the  most  careful  students  of 
art  and  pleasure  in  the  ancient  world,  was  not  only  the 
germ  of  tragedy,  and  so  of  all  the  great  productions  of 
Sophocles  and  Shakspeare,  but  itself  a  form  of  the  same 
amusement  which,  to-day,  after  the  lapse  of  thirty 
centuries,  entrances  crowds  in  the  capital  of  the  new 
world.  How  ineradicable  must  be  the  instinct"  that 
prompted  the  sacred  dances  in  the  groves  of  Athens, 
that  delighted  the  king  of  Judea  till  he  sacrificed  the 
head  of  a  saint  to  the  whim  of  a  girl,  that  fascinated 
the  Howadji  as  he  journeyed  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile, 
and  now  excites  a  dollar-loving  people  to  ecstasy  as  they 
gaze  on  the  faultless  form  and  bewitching  grace  of  a 
foreign  woman.  Mankind  is  the  same  under  all  climes 
and  all  circumstances.  I  like  to  fancy  that  I  share  the 
pleasures  of  the  gay  and  intellectual  Athenian ;  to  know 
that  what  delighted  Alcibiades  affords  me  gratification ; 
that  the  dwellers  in  the  luxury  of  a  Sardanapalus  revel 
led  in  no  more  exquisite  "  lusts  of  the  eye,"  than  are 
now  afforded  to  an  American  on  the  shore  of  that  land 
not  long  ago  rescued  from  the  clutch  of  the  red  man. 

Some,  I  know,  declare  the  ballet  unnatural  and  awk 
ward.  We  all  have  read  Carlyle's  scathing  criticism  of 
the  stage  dance ;  we  all  have  heard  our  acquaintances 
dilate  upon  the  absurdity  of  a  woman  sticking  her  leg 
up  in  the  air,  or  walking  on  her  toes.  And,  of  course, 
as  long  as  you  talk  of  the  ballet,  you  can  ridicule  it.  It 
is  in  some  respects  unnatural ;  its  artists  are  often  awk 
ward  ;  and  those  who  have  no  susceptibility  to  the  fasci 
nations  of  form  and  color  and  motion  may,  very  likely, 


The  Ballet.  145 

look  on  in  amazement  at  what  shall  excite  an  uproar  of 
applause  in  the  theatre.  Still,  it  is  impossible  that  an 
amusement  which  has  been  found  to  possess  such  charms 
for  the  universal  race,  which  is  enjoyed  alike  by  the 
wild  savages  of  Otaheite  and  the  most  polished  nations 
of  modern  times,  which  boasts  to-day  its  triumphs  in 
every  capital  in  the  world,  which  attracts  crowds  of 
those  best  versed  in  pleasure  and  most  learned  in  art — it 
is  impossible  that  this  should  not  have  a  basis  somewhere 
in  our  nature.  Its  universality  proves  its  naturalness. 
And  even  in  the  abstract,  there  is  something  to  be  said  for 
it.  It  appeals  to  sense  and  feeling  and  taste.  It  is,  indeed, 
like  the  opera,  ridiculous  if  looked  at  logically;  nobody 
imagines  that  any  dying  Edgardo  or  Violetta  would 
sing  their  souls  away  in  strains  like  the  Bel1  alma  or 
Gran  Bio  ;  nobody  imagines  that  the  legitimate  expres 
sion  of  female  passion  is  whirling  around  on  one  leg,  and 
flinging  the  other  round  the  neck  of  a  man.  But  for  all 
that,  the  strains  of  "  Lucia"  and  the  "  Traviata"  do  ravish 
and  move  the  listeners ;  for  all  that,  the  action  of  Cento 
and  the  grace  of  Carlotta  Grisi  set  men's  brains  on  fire. 
There  is  expression  in  the  dance,  there  is  meaning  in 
the  pantomime,  there  is  soul  in  the  ballet.  Passion  and 
sentiment  and  feeling  are  expressed  not  only  in  the  eye 
and  face,  not  only  in  the  lithe  form  and  exquisitely 
moulded  limbs  of  beauty,  but  in  the  graceful  motions 
and  fascinating  positions  of  the  dance.  Who  that  has 
seen  the  touching  story  of  The  Willies  unfolded  by 
Caroline  Rousset,  that  has  watched  her  floating,  sylph- 
like  gestures  and  delicate  movements,  but  will  acknow 
ledge  the  capabilities  of  the  stage  dance.  Who  that 
has  been  fired  by  the  abandon  and  wild  gipsy  spirit 

7 


146  The  Vagabond. 

of  the  Spanish  Soto,  but  can  tell  of  the  delights  of  the 
ballet? 

The  furore  created  by  a  new  debrtt,  the  hats,  and 
gloves,  and  flowers  and  diamonds  showered  on  Holla 
last  Monday,  the  crowded  theatres  and  prodigious 
applause  that  have  rewarded  her  exertions  since,  re 
mind  me  of  the  triumphs  of  her  predecessors,  recall  the 
days  of  other  dancers  now,  alas  !  grown  stiff  and  old.  I 
can  just  remember  the  sensation  created  by  Elssler ; 
I  know  how  the  young  men  went  mad,  and  the 
young  women  got  jealous  ;  how  the  Park  theatre  was 
crowded  nightly  with  the  fashion  and  beauty  of  the 
town ;  how  they  said  the  appearance  of  the  divine 
Fanny  was  a  new  revelation ;  how  they  talked  of  the 
antique  statues  inspired  into  motion  ;  how  the  greatest 
prudes  took  boxes,  and  the  oldest  fogies  raved.  But  I 
could  not  then  appreciate  the  excellences  of  the  ballet : 
a  third-rate  dancer  would  have  pleased  me  as  well  as 
the  incomparable  gyrations  that  have  never  since  been 
equalled  in  America.  Probably  my  brain  would  have 
been  turned  by  Augusta  as  well  as  by  Elssler ;  the 
whirl  of  one's  legs  would  have  made  me  giddy  as 
quickly  as  the  "  Tarantula"  of  the  other.  I  probably 
liked  to  see  the  performances  of  the  Miss  Madelines  and 
Miss  Adelines,  the  Ducys  and  Lucys  who  filled  up  the 
entr'actes.  The  sparse  allowance  of  petticoats  undoubt 
edly  excited  my  curiosity,  and  the  sight  of  a  woman's 
calf,  covered  only  with  flesh-colored  hose,  made  my 
boyish  blood  run  fast,  though  the  steps  its  owner  took 
were  heavy  and  slow.  However,  custom  blunts  the 
edge  of  everything,  and  I  got  used  to  sights  of  .this 
description.  After  having  stood  behind  the  scenes  talk- 


The  Ballet.  147 

ing  to  a  ballet-girl  while  she  chalked  her  shoes,  and 
gone  home  with  a  bevy  to  supper  all  in  their  stage 
dresses,  one  isn't  particularly  interested  in  the  perform 
ance  as  seen  from  the  other  side  of  the  footlights.  I 
confess  I  was  a  little  fluttered  the  first  time  a  pretty 
woman  came  into  the  coulisse  and  held  out  her  foot  to 
me  instead  of  her  hand ;  but  I  soon  got  ready  to  take 
it,  and  now  feet  and  hands  are  all  alike,  so  that  I  don't 
have  to  furnish  gloves  and  hose.  The  mystery  is  half 
the  charm;  and  when  there  was  no  mystery  to  me 
about  these  women,  when  I  saw  the  ballet-master  scold 
them  at  rehearsal,  and  observed  their  efforts  in  the 
morning  to  do  what  was  to  bring  down  the  house  in 
the  evening,  when  I  noticed  the  red  and  white  chalk, 
the  false  eyelashes  and  the  hired  bouquets,  there  was 
no  more  enchantment.  Then  I  longed  for  good  danc 
ing  ;  then  I  discovered  that  Malvina's  shape  was  bad, 
and  Aldina's  legs  were  long  ;  that  one  had  big  feet,  and 
another  moved  heavily  ;  that  this  one  was  too  stout, 
and  the  other  so  awkward  ;  then  I  waited  for  the  Avatar 
of  a  new  divinity. 

The  Roussets,  I  think,  came  first  after  Elssler.  The 
four  sisters  made  an  impression.  Lecompte  and  Celeste 
and  Augusta  had  been  forgotten,  and  many  who  crowded 
to  Niblo's  to  see  "  Catarina,"  had  never  witnessed  such 
dancing  before.  Then  Adelaide,  in  her  male  attire,  was 
very  bewitching ;  and  though  Caroline  was  homely,  and 
her  form  not  so  exquisite  as  many  that  I  have  seen 
since,  she  was  yet  a  fine  dancer — she  was  spirituel  and 
delicate,  more  at  home  as  Giselle  than  as  "La  Reine  des 
Bandits ;"  and  though  she  led  the  evolutions  of  her 
military  corps  with  skill  and  grace,  though  she  danced 


148  The  Vagabond. 

the  Manola  with  Adelaide  with  considerable  spirit, 
her  forte  was  rather  in  the  waving,  floating  style ;  she 
looked  a  very  Giselle ;  she  seemed  at  times  to  have  both 
feet  off  the  stage,  to  be  buoyed  up  in  the  air,  so  grace 
fully,  so  gradually,  so  exquisitely  she  moved.  That 
excrescence  of  the  ballet,  a  male  dancer,  was  always 
got  rid  of  in  their  performances — the  male  dancers,  who 
do  nothing  but  spin  around,  till  you  wonder  whether 
they  will  ever  have  done,  and  especially  if  they  can  ever 
get  unwound  again. 

Pougaud  and  Soto  came  together:  fair  examples  of  the 
French  and  Spanish  styles  ;  the  one  all  art,  the  other 
all  fire;  the  one  seductive,  the  other  inspiring;  Pou 
gaud,  finished,  and  careful,  and  immodest  and  cold,  dis 
playing  her  talent,  making  great  efforts  and  superb 
poses,  accomplishing  whatever  she  aimed  at,  but  doing 
it  all  for  effect,  and  simpering  and  smirking  for  applause ; 
Soto,  brimful  of  Andalusian  animation,  enthusiastic  in 
her  nature  and  passionate  in  her  movements,  whirling 
round  in  a  perfect  abandon,  and  whirling  her  audience 
invariably  along  with  her,  by  far  the  most  exciting 
dancer  that  I  have  ever  seen.  Too  heavy  to  attempt  the 
great  achievements  of  her  rival,  not  so  lithe  as  many, 
and  even  lacking  precision  and  aplomb,  she  yet  flung 
her  whole  soul  so  into  the  dance,  she  so  identified  her 
self  and  her  nationality  with  what  she  was  about,  that 
none  could  resist  the  entrainement.  To  see  her  come 
down  the  stage  in  the  Manola,  the  very  sound  of  the 
music  of  which  is  inspiriting  and  exciting — to  see  her 
bright  black  eyes  flash,  and  her  Spanish  blood  mount 
into  her  cheek,  as  she  whirled  her  body  and  flung  her 
arms,  and  leaned  nearly  level  with  the  stage,  was  a 


The  Ballet. 


149 


sight  thai  always  made  the  house  ring  again.  I  have 
known  the  pit  brought  to  their  feet  more  than  once  by 
this  dance.  Pougaud's  chef  d'oeuvre  was  the  incanta 
tion  scene  in  "  Robert  le  Diable ;''  the  enchantments  of 
the  wicked  abbess,  the  unearthly  wiles  to  lead  a  man  to 
ruin,  were  the  very  ones  her  talent  was  fitted  to  portray. 
The  insinuating  grace,  the  seductive  smile  and  action 
of  Helena,  have  never  been  better  given  in  New  York 
than  by  Pougaud.  I  never  wondered  that  Robert  suc 
cumbed  to  such  fascinations ;  it  would  have  been  un 
manly  to  resist. 

Mathias,  the  exquisite  pantomimist,  the  pretty  Rus 
sian,  never  made  so  great  a  sensation  as  she  ought  to 
have  done  ;  and  Teresa  Robert,  the  most  perfect  dancer 
of  the  French  school  that  has  ever  been  in  New  York, 
with  the  most  faultlessly-formed  limbs  and  the  ugliest 
face  imaginable,  was  not  appreciated.  They  each  drew 
immensely  at  first ;  the  town  talked  of  them  for  a  week  ; 
everybody  went  to  see  them ;  and  then  they  were  no 
more  thought  of  than  if  they  had  been  second-rate. 
Whether  Rolla  will  share  their  fate,  remains  to  be  seen. 
She  is  prettier  than  most  of  her  predecessors ;  she  is 
well  shaped ;  she  is  refined  and  interesting ;  she  is  full 
of  expression  in  face  and  form ;  her  dancing  all  has 
meaning,  but  she  does  no  wonders  in  her  art.  Her  tours 
deforce  are  not  equal  to  Robert's,  and  she  has  not  the 
fire  of  Soto ;  her  chami  consists  in  the  exquisite  and 
delicate  expression  of  her  dancing,  in  her  little  steps, 
and  in  her  personal  attractions. 

We  don't  have  the  grand  ballet  here  yet,  in  the  style 
in  which  it  is  given  abroad.  The  principal  artistes  are 
excellent,  but  we  want  Cerito  and  Carlotta  Grisi ;  and 


150  The  Vagabond. 

more  than  that,  we  want  the  superlative  splendors  of  the 
Parisian  theatres.  The  ballet  needs  every  adjunct  of 
music  and  scenery.  All  sensual  pleasures  harmonize 
with  it ;  elaborate  and  gorgeous  colors,  troops  of  beau 
tiful  women,  music  more  exciting  than  we  get  away 
from  the  opera ;  something  on  a  grander  scale  than  we 
have  yet  had  here.  The  Pas  des  Patineurs,  in  "Le  Pro- 
phete,"  the  ballet  of  "  Guillaume  Tell,"  as  these  were 
produced  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  give  some  idea  of 
what  I  mean.  When  we  have  saltatory  performances 
of  this  description,  combined  with  the  greatest  artists  in 
the  world,  as  they  say  we  shall  have  next  winter,  the 
ballet  will  not  lose  its  charms  in  a  month,  nor  a  dancer 
grow  stale  in  her  prime. 


THE  NATIONAL  ACADEMY  OF 
DESIGN. 

"  Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

Hamlet. 

WHOEVER  has  read  "  Jane  Eyre "  (and  who  has 
not  ?)  will  remember  the  vivid  description  of  the  draw 
ings  that  Rochester  found  in  the  portfolio  of  the  homely 
little  governess ;  the  wonderful  character  of  those 
sketches;  the  immense  feeling  that  struggled  for  ex 
pression  in  lines  and  colors  till  it  was  spoken  as  plainly 
as  in  words.  The  same  idea  of  painting  which  prompted 
these,  was  common  to  the  entire  Bronte  family ;  Mrs. 
Gaskell  tells  of  the  three  purblind  sisters,  full  of  pent-up 
genius  and  character,  poring  over  the  few  prints  that 
fell  in  their  way,  and  spelling  out  the  meaning  of  the 
artist,  guessing  at  the  thoughts  that .  originated  his 
work,  or  deciphering  the  enigma  veiled  in  his  outlines. 
If  Patrick  Bronte  had  accomplished  what  he  so  wildly 
longed  for,  what  he  so  wildly  cried  for  in  that  wonder 
ful  letter  to  Wordsworth,  which  harrows  up  one's  heart 
to  read :  if  he  had  made  himself  a  name  as  an  artist,  it 
would,  I  dare  say,  have  been  as  a  man  of  feeling,  as  a 
painter  full  of  power  and  meaning.  The  Brontes  were 
right ;  all  lonely  in  their  llaworth  parsonage,  out  of  the 
way  of  art,  they  had  learned  art's  highest  teachings 


The  Vagabond. 

from  her  sister,  nature ;  they  had  hit  instinctively  upon 
what  some  arrive  not  at,  after  years  of  labor  and  study 
— the  knowledge  that  art  is  useless  save  as  the  utter 
ance  of  thought,  as  the  expression  of  feeling,  as  the 
embodiment  of  sentiment. 

This  is  true  of  art  in  every  one  of  its  departments ; 
elocution  is  not  acting,  so  Mr.  Wallack  is  infinitely  infe 
rior  to  young  Booth  in  essentials ;  words  are  not  poetry, 
so  Pope,  with  all  his  cultivated  numbers,  is  tame  by 
comparison  with  the  stammerings  of  Shelley ;  science  is 
not  music,  and  the  elaborate  learning  of  Mercadante, 
and  sometimes  of  Mendelssohn,  is  sounding  brass  and 
tinkling  cymbal,  to  the  melody  that  scintillates  all 
through  Verdi  or  Rossini.  But  in  painting  especially, 
the  difference  is  eternal  and  the  distance  impassable  be 
tween  the  true  and  its  imitation.  He  who  has  nothing 
to  say,  no  thought  to  utter,  no  feeling  to  express,  may 
as  well  abandon  his  pallet  and  pencil.  He  may  color 
and  draw,  he  may  elaborate  with  the  painstaking  fide 
lity  of  a  Denner  or  a  Mr.  Hill,  he  may  rival  the  effects 
of  the  daguerreotype,  but  he  will  give  only  the  body 
without  the  soul.  Without  the  inspiration  which  never 
is  acquired,  his  color  will  be  cold  and  his  drawing  stiff"; 
or  even  if  he  counterfeit  grace  and  warmth,  the  life, 
the  breath,  the  spirit  will  be  lacking.  The  statue  will 
never  speak  to  its  Praxiteles ;  the  fire  will  never  be  in 
fused  unless  Prometheus  steal  it  from  the  gods. 

All  that  I  look  for  in  the  Academy  of  Design  is  some 
trace  of  this  fire ;  some  spark,  some  show  of  feeling  or  of 
thought.  The  closest  outside  imitation  without  it  affects 
me  not,  and  one  touch  of  nature  gives  me  more  pleasure 
than  the  most  elaborate  results  of  skill.  I  had  rather 


The  National  Academy  of  Design.     153 

see  even  a  misshapen  creation  like  that  of  Frankenstein, 
grotesque  and  monstrous,  but  yet  alive,  than  the  finest 
of  fantoccini  or  the  best  dressed  wax  doll.  I  discuss 
no  technicalities,  for  general  criticism  should  be  general, 
not  technical.  The  student  of  an  ai't  is  expected  to 
master  its  secrets  and  be  acquainted  with  its  details ; 
but  others,  whatever  interest  they  may  feel  in  the  sub 
ject,  care  for  it  only  as  it  affects  them  and  in  its  results  ; 
as  an  end,  not  as  a  means.  The  critic's  function  is  to 
discuss  the  aim  and  object  of  art,  not  to  descant  upon 
the  means  by  which  that  object  is  attained  ;  to  appre 
ciate  the  beauties  of  a  picture  or  a  statue,  to  point  out  its 
faults,  and  impartially  to  discriminate  between  the  true 
and  the  false,  the  beautiful  and  the  plain ;  but  it  is  the 
province  of  the  professor  to  say  how  the  form  should  be 
rounded  and  where  the  color 'shoiild  be  laid  on.  Criti 
cism  for  artists  exclusively,  may  be  concerned  with  the 
study,  the  practice,  the  efforts,  the  labor.  Criticism  in 
general  is  concerned  with  the  result.  But  because  a  man 
does  not  understand  how  to  compose  an  opera  is  no 
reason  why  he  shall  not  appreciate  its  beauties ;  because 
I  may  draw  worse  than  Ruskin  says  Claude  Lorraine 
does,  is  not  to  say  I  cannot  tell  a  line  of  enchanting 
grace  when  I  see  it. 

The  present  exhibition  at  the  Academy  is  an  encou 
raging  one  ;  there  is  more  excellence  than  I  have  noted 
in  any  of  its  collections  for  a  number  of  years.  More 
of  the  portraits  have  character,  more  of  the  landscapes 
reflect  the  spirit  of  nature.  And  of  all  in  the  galleries, 
that  which  is  the  fullest  of  feeling,  at  once  the  truest  to 
externals,  and  the  most  instinct  with  expression — per 
haps  the  most  instinct  with  expression  because  the  truest 

7* 


1^4  The  Vagabond. 

to  externals — is  Mr.  Church's  "Andes  of  Ecuador." 
His  recent  works  place  this  artist  at  the  head  of 
American  landscape  painters  ;  and  it  is  as  landscape 
painters  only  that  our  artists  have  yet  achieved  any 
place;  it  is  in  landscapes  only  that  they  have  suc 
ceeded  in  caging  any  of  the  indefinable,  subtle  some 
thing  we  call  genius ;  in  landscapes  only  that  ideas  are 
embodied ;  by  them  only  that  impressions,  sentiments, 
feelings  are  conveyed.  American  portraits  are  not  often 
portraits  of  men  and  women,  but  of  faces  and  gowns — 
features  without  soul,  complexion  without  character. 
Our  historical  works  are  attempts,  not  achievements ; 
showing  an  ambition  which,  alas !  is  worth  nothing 
without  the  ability.  Anybody  may  aim,  but  how  few 
attain.  Pretentious  efforts  after  greatness,  denominated 
historical  pictures,  bare  or  tawdry  in  conception,  crude 
and  stupid  in  execution,  are  not  redeemed  because  their 
authors  wanted  to  excel.  It  is  hard  of  course  for  them 
that  they  did  not,  but  they  are  damned  nevertheless. 
Aim  cannot  be  accepted  for  accomplishment :  indeed, 
without  the  latter,  it  only  makes  a  man  ridiculous ;  and 
such,  sooth  to  say,  are  too  many  historical  painters. 
Convinced  of  this,  they  have  of  late  eschewed  the 
branch  of  art  in  which  no  excellence  seems  likely  soon 
to  be  attained  by  Americans. 

But  in  landscapes  the  sky  is  brighter ;  there  is  ample 
field;  there  is  inspiring  theme;  there  is  nature  fresh 
and  young  as  ever,  but  doubly  new  and  fresh  to  those 
who  seek  her  in  the  new  world.  The  Andes  and  the 
Niagara  are  fitting  themes  for  an  American  artist,  and 
have  been  fitly  handled  by  Mr.  Church.  Who  that 
stands  before  the  picture  I  speak  of,  and  gazes  at  the 


The  National  Academy  of  Design.     155 

magnificent  prospect,  the  lofty  ranges,  the  distant  out 
line  melting  into  the  clouds,  the  hazy  peaks,  the  shim 
mering  sun  of  the  tropics,  the  gorgeous-tinted  earth 
and  sky,  but  must  acknowledge  that  the  artist  has 
caught  and  conveyed  a  new  feeling  to  the  mind.  His 
canvas  lives.  You  forget  to  discuss  the  admirable 
perspective;  the  curious  manner  in  which  the  fore 
ground  is  made  to  contribute  to  the  general  effect ;  the 
mystery  of  tone  which  is  hung  over  the  picture  like  a 
curtain,  subduing  and  mellowing  every  tint  to  a  subor 
dinate  effect;  the  exquisite  drawing  of  the  hills,  re 
minding  you  of  Ruskin's  simile  of  rocks  like  ribs 
clothed  in  living  flesh,  and  swelling  beneath  the  life-like 
garment — all  these  are  lost  in  the  general  effect.  Some 
quarrel  with  Mr.  Church  that  he  makes  everything  sub 
ordinate  to  effect :  that  is,  that  soul  is  more  to  him  than 
body ;  but  not  so  I.  His  pictures  speak  their  meaning, 
have  an  influence,  excite  feelings,  and  even  if  sometimes 
his  skies  are  impossible,  or  his  foliage  untrue,  if  he 
daguerreotypes  not,  gives  no  fac-simile  of  nature,  his 
works  yet  answer  the  higher  purpose  of  awakening  the 
same  emotion  which  the  sight  of  the  landscape  itself 
would  inspire.  This  is  art's  noblest,  truest  function ;  not 
to  imitate  nature,  but  to  rival  it. 

Mr.  Durand  is  worthily  represented,  although  his  pro 
ductions  are  scarcely  as  much  individualized  as  usual ;  for 
sometimes  they  are  individualized  to  such  a  degree  as 
to  be  just  on  this  side  of  mannerisms,  but  on  this  side 
still.  He  looks  not  at  nature  in  the  wilder,  warmer 
aspects  that  most  strike  his  younger  peer.  He  wants 
quiet,  refreshing  glimpses;  June-like  views,  graceful 
elm  trees,  browsing  cattle,  gentle  streams ;  but  he  as 


156  The  Vagabond. 

truly  mirrors  nature.  He  catches  another  phase  quite 
as  successfully ;  he  sees  her  not  in  so  imposing  a  garb ; 
he  is  not  like  Moses,  who  looked  on  God  unveiled  ;  lie 
enters  not  the  holy  of  holies  barefoot ;  but  he  is  a  true 
worshipper  at  the  shrine.  He  cannot  paint  a  storm 
without  sunlight  breaking  through  clouds,  but  he  exerts 
a  delicious  calming  influence ;  he  soothes  perturbed 
spirits ;  he,  too,  is  a  real  artist. 

Kensett  is  the  other  member  of  the  trinity  of  land 
scape  painters  who  excel  all  their  brethren  in  this  de 
partment.  He  is  not  so  sumptuous  in  his  tastes  as 
Church,  nor  so  like  Goldsmith  in  his  influence  as 
Durand.  He  chooses  not  to  portray  the  tropical  atmo 
sphere  nor  the  peculiarities  of  autumnal  glories ;  he  is 
aflected  not  by  placid  lakes  and  softened  hills;  he 
prefers  wildness,  but  not  the  very  wildness  of  Niagara ; 
a  White  Mountain  view,  with  rough,  precipitous  sides, 
and  scraggy  rocks  and  stunted  foliage,  with  black  look 
ing  tarns  and  racing  torrents,  a  real  American  view. 
His  masterpiece  of  last  year  was,  however,  finer  than 
his  best  picture  in  the  present  exhibition.  There  was 
about  it  the  same  unity  of  feeling,  the  same  harmony 
of  conception,  the  same  originality  of  treatment,  and 
an  apparently  keener  appreciation  of  the  spirit  of  the 
place.  A  still  greater  seclusion  appeared  to  pervade 
the  scene,  a  still  fresher  coolness  was  in  those  woods,  a 
blacker  shade  hung  over  the  pool.  He  is  perhaps  quite 
as  essentially  American  in  his  landscapes  as  either  of 
the  other  two  great  artists  who  lead  the  van. 

Mr.  Grey  is  the  first  of  our  colorists.  His  pictures 
all  have  a  magical  influence  on  me ;  they  leave  a  deep 
impression ;  they  strike  me  instantly  and  unmistakably. 


The  National  Academy  of  Design      157 

He  is  called  a  mannerist,  an  imitator  of  old  painters ; 
but,  if  it  is  imitation,  it  is  such  as  no  countryman  of  his 
can  equal.  If  it  is  a  mannerism  it  is  full  of  character. 
He  is  not  pretty  in  treatment,  but  effective ;  he  under 
stands  tone,  not  as  if  taught,  but  as  if  inspired.  What 
he  does  is  not  the  result  of  labor,  or  others  would  share 
in  his  success.  He  has  great  merits  in  drawing  also, 
but  lacks,  sadly  lacks,  expression.  His  "Hagar"  is  full 
of  beauties  of  tone,  is  nicely  drawn — sometimes  charm 
ingly — but  it  might  nearly  as  well  be  a  "  Sarah "  as  a 
"  Hagar."  His  portraits  are  rather  types  of  a  class  than 
absolute  individualities.  He  is  excelled  in  this  respect 
by  Elliott  and  Huntingdon,  who  give  us  the  man — 
especially  wherein  he  differs  from  others.  They  discern 
what  makes  a  man  himself,  what  constitutes  character ; 
they  have  the  rare  faculty  of  peering  through  the 
countenance  into  lines  that  lie  deeper  than  features,  and 
it  is  these  Hires  that  they  reproduce  on  canvas.  This 
makes  their  portraits,  portraits ;  this  sets  them  so  far 
above  others  who  attempt  the  same  thing. 

Many  of  the  other  pictures  have  merit,  but  it  is  use 
less  to  catalogue  them  here  ;  I  only  attempt  to  say  when 
one  seems  to  me  to  rise  far  above  the  mass.  I  find 
much  that  interests  me  not ;  but,  on  the  whole,  good 
cause  for  encouragement ;  no  reason  to  retract  what  I 
said  two  weeks  ago  of  an  onward  movement  in  Ameri 
can  art.  The  three  landscapes  of  Church,  Durand,  and 
Kensett  are  alone  enough  to  assure  me  that  there  is 
reason  for  congratulation. 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

"  Be  that  you  are ; 
That  is,  a  woman." 

Measure  for  Measure. 

IT  is  now  ten  years  since  "Jane  Eyre"  was  given  to 
the  woi'ld ;  but  Avho  does  not  remember  the  marvellous 
success  of  that  marvellous  production  ?  Who  does  not 
still  more  distinctly  remember  its  effect  upon  himself? 
For  it  is  a  work  of  genius  ;  it  is  one  of  those  things 
that  speak  direct  to  the  individual ;  that  penetrate 
through  all  swaddlings  of  circumstance  and  education  ; 
that  have  a'  universal  voice ;  that  affect  the  innermost 
nature.  High  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  old  and  young, 
illiterate  and  educated,  were  all  touched ;  a  chord  was 
struck  that  vibrated  in  every  heart.  Since  then  other 
powerful  books  have  come  to  us  from  the  same  pen  ; 
"  Shirley"  and  "  Villette"  also  were  full  of  the  wonder 
ful  influence,  the  magnetism  of  genius  ;  bespoke  the 
same  intense  nature  that  was  revealed  in  their  pre 
decessor  ;  awoke  responsive  emotions  in  bosoms  whose 
throbs  the  world  never  knew  of,  in  breasts  all  unused 
to  answer  to  the  play  of  these  word-magicians.  Then 
came  the  first  few  intimations  that  the  public  got  of  the 
personality  of  the  great  writer  ;  her  name,  her  age,  her 
residence,  and  at  last  a  voice  in  her  own  proper  charac- 


Charlotte  Bronte.  159 

ter — the  preface  to  her  sister's  works.  In  this  spoke 
out  again  the  compressed  feeling  which  had  been  the 
secret  of  "  Jane  Eyre's"  power.  However,  only  a  few 
words  were  said  ;  and  soon  after  followed  the  news  that 
Charlotte  Bronte  was  dead.  Mrs.  Gaskill's  remarkable 
biography  let  us  into  the  secrets  of  her  character ;  told 
us  the  story  of  that  lonely  parsonage  among  the  York 
shire  hills ;  described  the  three  caged  sisters,  full  of 
repressed  genius  and  feeling,  pent  up  in  their  little  par 
lor  at  Haworth,  pacing  up  and  down  like  wild  beasts 
eager  to  be  free,  and  with  emotions  quite  as  restless  as 
themselves  raging  within  their  breasts — as  complete  and 
sad  a  picture  as  exists  in  the  history  of  English  lite 
rature.  And  now,  we  have  "The  Professor,"  Char 
lotte's  first  work,  and  yet  her  last,  coining  to  us  with  a 
peculiar  interest  since  we  have  studied  the  character  of 
its  writer ;  a  book  which  read  by  the  light  the  biography 
throws  across  its  pages  is  full  of  as  strange  significance 
as  any  in  the  language. 

All  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  books  are  full  of  person 
ality.  The  author  looked  into  her  own  heart,  and  por 
trayed  what  she  saw,  and  felt,  and  was  ;  you  believe  in 
the  reality  of  what  she  says,  and  therefore  acknowledge 
her  sway.  One  got  to  know  much  of  her  from  her 
works,  before  the  biography  revealed  her  innermost 
nature.  But  when  that  singular  production  displayed 
the  entire  and  uneventful  career  of  Currer  Bell ;  when  it 
laid  bare  her  every  feeling  and  thought ;  when  it  dis 
closed  the  most  secret  recesses  of  her  character,  we 
seemed  admitted  to  a  confidence  generally  bestowed 
only  on  the  nearest  and  dearest  of  friends.  "  The  Pro 
fessor,"  however,  goes  even  a  step  beyond  ;  you  can 


160  The  Vagabond. 

know  the  woman  now  even  as  she  kne w  herself ;  secrets 
are  betrayed  in  this  book,  secrets  of  feeling,  and  tl  ought, 
and  passion,  that  none  ever  disclose  to  any  friend.  The 
veil  is  torn  away  from  the  most  private  and  sacred  parts 
of  her  nature  ;  everything  is  uncovered  to  the  glaring 
light  of  publicity  ;  every  stranger  can  rudely  venture 
in  and  trace  the  growth  of  character,  can  watch  the 
throbs  of  passion,  the  development  of  ideas  in  a  being 
so  strangely  sensitive,  so  morbidly  inclined  to  shrink 
from  just  this  gaze.  I  feel,  in  reading  "  The  Professor," 
as  if  I  were  intruding  where  I  had  no  right  to  be.  You 
absolutely  know  the  woman  better  than  she  could  her 
self.  You  can  say  what  incident  in  her  real  life  sug 
gested  this  fictitious  circumstance ;  what  throb  prompted 
this  burning  line  ;  what  nerve,  touched  to  the  qitick, 
started  these  words  that  speak  and  flash  so  vividly. 
And  she,  Charlotte  Bronte,  the  reserved,  undemonstra 
tive  Avoman,  who  kept  her  feelings  and  her  passions 
pent  up  and  hidden,  she  to  have  her  very  soul  torn 
quivering  from  her  almost  before  she  is  cold,  and  ex 
posed,  panting  and  bleeding,  to  the  curiosity  of  the 
multitude !  They  were  strange  friends  who  had  such 
ideas  of  the  duties  of  friends. 

And  yet  the  fascination  in  the  nature  of  the  woman, 
and  in  her  genius,  the  magnetic  influence  of  human 
sympathy,  will  not  let  me  turn  away.  Since  those 
whose  duty  it  was  to  decently  close  the  eyes  of  the 
dead  and  bury  her  quietly,  have  chosen  to  strip  off  the 
shroud,  and  offer  her  form  to  the  dissecting-knife,  why 
should  we  hesitate  to  learn  a  lesson  of  human  nature  thus 
thrust  upon  us  ?  Let  us  approach  reverently  as  is  due 
to  the  genius,  delicately  as  beseems  the  sex,  truthfully  as 


Charlotte  Bronte.  161 

befits  the  nature  of  her  of  whom  I  speak.  CouH  I  mtch 
the  spirit  that  animated  Charlotte  Bronte — that  earnest, 
honest  spirit — though  her  surpassing  power  of  course 
would  dazzle,  that  spirit  might  animate  me,  and  help 
me  to  do  her  a  measure  of  justice. 

The  womanliness  of  Charlotte  Bronte  first  strikes  me 
in  everything  that  she  has  written ;  the  depth  of  wo 
manly  feeling ;  the  height  of  womanly  passion  ;  the  way 
in  which  she  has  put  herself  into  her  books,  little  sus 
pecting  that  a  key  should  afterwards  be  offered  to  the 
world  which  would  unlock  every  mystery  she  chose  to 
hint  at  in  her  words.  The  revelation  of  character  is 
marvellous.  The  tenderer  feminine  traits  are  not  so 
manifest,  but  the  earnest  ones  of  woman  are  all  de 
veloped:  the  clinging  with  the  whole  soul  around  what 
she  loves  ;  the  eager  reception  of  a  passion  ;  the  absorp 
tion  of  it  into  her  nature  ;  the  identification  of  herself 
with  its  object — in  a  word,  what  constitutes  the  truest 
and  noblest  part  of  the  truest  and  noblest  woman.  De 
monstrations  are  not  common,  are  not  lavished  openly 
and  freely :  the  first  indications  of  any  passions  are 
repressed,  confidence  is  not  sought,  but  the  tremendous 
force,  the  cataract  of  feeling  at  last  sweeps  everything 
before  it,  and  rises  to  the  heights  of  the  loftiest  tragedy. 
This  I  call  one  phase  of  woman's  character.  There  are 
those  who  lack  the  softer  traits ;  who  bestow  not  tears 
and  kisses  daily  and  nightly;  who  have  none  of  the 
youthful  exuberance  of  Juliet ;  who  sternly  repress  what 
emotions  sprout  up,  but  who,  in  the  whirlwind  of  pas 
sion,  are  all  the  more  terrible  from  their  usual  calm ; 
who  hide  under  equable  exteriors,  under  the  crust  of 
quiet,  a  very  volcano  of  feeling ;  and  such  a  woman 


162  The   Vagabond. 

Jane  Eyre  was  painted,  such  a  woman  is  everywhere 
developed  in  the  works  of  Currer  Bell,  such  a  woman 
was  Charlotte  Bronte. 

For  she  nowhere  creates ;  she  had  not,  in  so  great  a 
degree  as  the  world  has  thought,  the  inventive  faculty ; 
she  transcribes  herself,  her  own  emotions,  her  own  feel 
ings,  and  ideas  ;  she  pecks  at  her  own  breast  for  the  life- 
blood  that  warms  her  productions ;  she  clothes  with 
living  flesh  not  the  figures  of  her  fancy,  but  those  that 
stood  out  in  her  memory.  Here  again  I  discern  the 
woman ;  man  creates,  woman  receives ;  one  makes  im 
pressions,  the  other  retains  them ;  and  even  this  won 
derful  genius  is  true  to  her  womanly  nature.  She  has 
none  of  the  Shaksperean  faculty,  none  of  the  universality 
of  Goethe  ;  she  does  not  beget  a  varied  crowd  of  cha 
racters  ;  she  does  not  speak  into  existence  those  whose 
identity  is  for  ever  established,  and  whose  variety  is  as 
remarkable  as  their  actuality.  It  is  a  few  homogeneous 
beings  that  she  sets  before  us,  all  having  the  same  cha 
racteristics,  the  same  intensity,  the  same  depth  of  cha 
racter,  the  same  tendency  to  repress  emotions,  the  same 
outwardly-forbidding  aspect,  the  same  condensed, 
crowded  feeling,  the  same  power  which  she  found  and 
felt  in  herself.  Rochester  and  Jane  Eyre  are  the  same 
being — different  phases  of  Charlotte  Bronte  ;  her  person 
ality  is  what  gives  them  life.  And  the  after  books  are 
still  repetitions,  each  one  weaker  than  the  last  (the 
woman  again) ;  she  had  crowded  herself  into  one  effort ; 
she  had  expended  the  intensity  of  her  nature  in  the  one 
burst.  You  heard  the  cry  and  your  heart  re-echoed  it ; 
you  felt  the  shock  and  your  own  nerves  answered ;  you 
acknowledge  all  the  wonderful  passion  and  genius  of  the 


Charlotte  Bronte.  163 

woman,  but  what  more  has  she  done  since  than  she  did 
then? 

And  not  only  does  she  not  create  characters,  not  only 
does  she  copy  from  herself  the  most  important  indi 
viduals  of  her  works,  and  from  her  own  family  or  the 
few  she  met  in  boarding  schools,  the  supernumeraries 
of  her  little  stage ;  but  even  her  events  and  plots  are, 
in  a  great  measure,  transcripts  of  real  life.  Doubtless, 
they  are  only  the  more  real  for  this :  incidents  are  given 
exactly  as  they  occurred  ;  scenery  is  described  till  it  is 
mirrored  before  you  ;  language  is  repeated  exactly  as  it 
fell  from  the  lips  of  her  friends.  Of  course  this  power 
of  reproducing  is  prodigious,  is  what  accounts  for  the 
great  effect  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  writings,  but  it  is  a 
distinct  and  separate  thing  from  that  other  and  higher 
power,  possessed  only  by  a  chosen  few,  of  creation. 

She  exhibits  only  that  phase  of  life  which  she  had 
seen ;  she  attempts  no  imaginative  writing ;  she  portrays 
with  the  faithfulness  of  a  Dutch  painter  the  scenes  in 
which  she  had  mingled;  she  sets  down  like  Denner 
every  hair,  and  those  who  have  been  thus  daguerreo- 
typed  complain  of  the  forbidding  truthfulness  which 
points  them  out  after  the  lapse  of  twenty  years  as  her 
originals.  Not  mere  daguerreotypes  though,  for  Char 
lotte  Bronte's  pictures  are  all  instinct  with  life,  all  full 
of  feeling,  all  teem  with  suggestiveness. 

The  closest  observation  of  character  in  her  is  com 
bined  with  the  most  searching  analysis  of  motives ;  she 
has  the  faculty  of  seeing  straight  through  all  disguises 
to  the  very  core  of  things  ;  she  penetrates  to  the  reality. 
The  most  retentive  memory  of  events  does  not  interfere 
with  the  ability  to  discover  the  significance  of  those 


164  The  Vagabond. 

events ;  and  though  her  sphere  is  narrow,  within  it  she 
is  absolute  master.  She  rings  the  changes  in  a  mourn 
ful  key,  and  on  one  instrument ;  she  breathes  always  the 
same  s/id  strain,  now  fierce  and  frantic  in  its  earnestness, 
now  more  terrible  because  repressed,  now  only  inti 
mating  the  concealed  depths  behind — but  with  all  the 
monotony  there  is  tremendous  power.  The  sadness 
again,  is  womanly;  the  consciousness  of  power  is  in  her 
ever  attended  by  the  sombre  feeling  of  fate  ;  her  novels 
are  almost  like  the  Greek  tragedy  in  this  respect ;  her 
novels  and  her  life  are  both  for  ever  under  this  pall. 
Even  in  the  wild  exultation  of  Jane  Eyre,  you  feel  the 
foreboding  of  coming  sorrow,  and  the  chastened  joy  at 
the  close  of  her  career  is  surely  such  as  men  are  not  apt 
to  be  content  with. 

The  intensity  of  feeling  everywhere  evinced  in  the 
works  of  Charlotte  Bronte  is  allied  to  a  degree  of 
coarseness ;  the  rush  of  emotions  crushes  out  delicacy  ; 
tenderness  even  is  forgotten  when  a  master  passion  seizes 
hold  of  the  soul.  And  I  confess  these  novels  have  al 
ways  seemed  to  me  such  as  a  woman  of  great  refine 
ment  could  not  have  written.  There  is  a  certain 
coarseness  of  feeling  everywhere  evident ;  not  surpris 
ing  in  one  educated  under  the  influences  that  surrounded 
the  Bronte  family,  but  which  was  besides  instinctive  in 
them.  No  woman  of  great  delicacy  could  do  or  de 
scribe  things  that  Miss  Bronte  describes  her  heroines  as 
doing.  The  very  abruptness  and  intensity  of  her  cha 
racters  are  not  of  the  sort  common  in  a  society  used  to  a 
polish  always  in  some  measure  deceitful.  I  do  not,  how 
ever,  here  allude  to  formal  refinements,  but  to  absolute 
and  innate  delicacy,  which  was,  in  some  degree,  lacking 


Charlotte  Bronte.  165 

in  Charlotte  Bronte's  character.  In  fact,  her  we  manli 
ness  Avas  of  a  peculiar  sort :  it  wanted  some  features 
which  are  commonly  thought  indispensable  to  true  wo 
manliness.  It  was  a  type  of  an  uncommon  kind,  but  it 
was  womanly,  after  all,  rather  than  manly. 

I  shall  not  now  discuss  the  literary  merits  of  her 
works.  What  need  to  dwell  on  the  compressed  energy 
of  her  style ;  upon  her  terse,  forcible  prose ;  upon  the 
way  in  which  character  is  again  mirrored  here  ;  upon 
the  absence  of  useless  ornament ;  upon  the  significance 
she  gives  to  natural  scenery ;  upon  the  life-likeness  of 
her  dialogue,  and  the  magnificent  vividness  of  her  de 
scriptions.  These,  of  course,  were  the  means  through 
which  her  genius  got  expression ;  but  I  trench  not  now 
on  the  province  of  those  who  criticise  the  writer,  I 
rather  attempt  to  say  Avhat  I  think  of  the  woman ;  to 
tell  my  idea  of  her  character.  All  artists,  of  course,  dis 
play  themselves  in  their  works ;  but  in  Charlotte  Bronte, 
character  and  genius  were  so  nearly  allied  as  to  become 
almost  identical ;  you  could  not  say  where  one  ceased 
and  the  other  began ;  you  could  not  tell  which  it  was 
that  aifected  you ;  you  only  knew  the  effect.  You  mar 
velled  at  the  insight  into  character,  at  the  penetration 
that  discovered,  and  the  skill  that  portrayed  motives ;  you 
yielded  to  the  sway  of  the  hand  that  was  placed  beneath 
your  heart  and  gathered  up  the  strings  to  wrench  them  ; 
you  submitted  to  the  sympathetic  influence,  and  for 
getting  to  criticise,  became  the  willing  subject  of  a 
magnetism  more  subtle  at  once  and  more  powerful  than 
any  known  to  magicians  or  mesmerisers.  You  bowed  to 
the  mysterious  supremacy  of  genius ;  and  cried  out — 
"This  is  the  finger  of  God." 


MY  UNKNOWN  CORRESPONDENTS. 

"My  gentle,  bashful  Nora  Creina." 

Hoards  Irish  Melodies. 

MR.  WILLIS  and  Bayard  Taylor  have  their  unknown 
correspondents,  and  why  should  not  I  ?  The  younger 
poet  is  just  married,  and  announces  to  the  world  that  he 
is  bored  by  these  missives  that  come  to  him  during  his 
honeymoon,  he  knows  not  whence.  Mr.  Willis,  how 
ever,  is  older,  and  don't  get  so  much  admiration 
expressed  to  his  face  (I  suppose)  as  Bayard,  so  he  says  : 
"  Write  away,  my  darlings ;  I  prize  your  appreciation." 
JEt  moi  aussi.  If  the  women  will  write,  I  will  read,  I 
promise.  And  they  do  write.  Every  once  in  a  while  I 
get  a  letter  directed  to  "  The  Vagabond  " — sometimes 
graceful,  sometimes  flattering,  sometimes  caustic,  some 
times  saucy,  always  piquant.  Somebody  who  read  my 
enthusiastic  praise  of  young  Booth's  beauty,  was  sure  it 
was  written  by  a  woman ;  but  you  couldn't  persuade 
my  fair  correspondents  of  this.  Do  you  think  they'd 
waste  thoughts  and  paper  on  one  of  their  own  sex  ? 
What  piquancy  in  that,  pray  ?  So  they  keep  up  a  run 
ning  fire  of  letters,  the  most  curious  imaginable  ;  so 
curious,  that  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  resist  the  temp 
tation  to  unfold  a  little  history  concerning  them  for  the 
edification  of  my  choicest  friends — the  very  select  few 


My  Unknown  Correspondents.         167 

who  read  "The  Vagabond."    The  first  of  these  communi 
cations  came  to  me  a  year  ago.     Here  it  is : — 

"  NEW  YORK,  17th  March. 

"MY  DEAR  VAGABOND:  Why  do  not  you — who  speak  of  Painting  as 
though  you  really  knew  something  about  it — no  small  praise  nowa 
days,  why  do  not  you  make  a  visit  to  a  few  of  our  New  York  studios, 
and  criticise  some  of  the  paintings  therein  contained  ? — There  is  a  sad 
dearth  just  now  of  art  criticism — that  is,  so  far  as  the  pencil  and 
brush  are  concerned — and  the  task  of  filling  the  vacuum  cannot  possi 
bly  fall  into  better  hands  than  yours,  my  dear  '  Vagabond,'  for  your 
article  in  last  week's  Times  proves  that  you  not  only  possess  the  judg 
ment  necessary  to  pick  out  the  faults  in  a  work  of  Art  and  censure 
them,  but  that  you  have  the  rarer  faculty  of  discovering  its  beauties, 
and  can  generously  praise  them  also.  Therefore  it  is  that  I  like  you  " 
(delightful  creature  I)  "and  your  criticisms.  Can  I  say  more  to  induce 
you  to  accede  to  my  wishes  ?  If  so,  let  me  know  what  and  presto  1 
it  is  said.  Seriously  though  will  you  not  oblige  me?  There  are  cer 
tain  Artists "  (the  capitals  are  my  correspondent's)  "  in  this  City  in 
whom  I  am  interested  and  certain  pictures  which  in  my  poor  judgment 
deserve  notice,  and  I  should  like  to  see  them  praised  ;  but  I  have  not 
the  knowledge  necessary  to  write  a  good  Art  Critique,  and  you  appa 
rently  have"  (who  wouldn't  be  a  "Vagabond?"),  "therefore,  sorely 
pressed  as  was  ever  fair  maiden  of  olden  time  I  appeal  to  your  chivalry 
to  aid  me.  Can  you  refuse  ?" 

Could  I  ?  Could  you  ¥  Then  follows  a  list  of  the 
artists  and  their  works,  and  their  studios ;  after  which 
my  correspondent  proceeds : 

"Have  I  failed  in  tempting  you  sufficiently,  and  in  failing  have  I 
also  betrayed  which  of  these  gentlemen  it  is  that  I  am  desirous  should 
possess  your  good  opinion  ?  I  hope  not  with  all  my  heart,  and  trust 
that  yours  will  not  permit  you  to  refuse  me,  then  like  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  I  shall  not  only  sing  the  '  Vagabond's '  praises,  but  thank 
him  heartily  too. 

"NORAH." 


168  The  Vagabond. 

I  beg  my  readers  to  observe  the  profusion  of  itali 
cised  words  and  the  scarcity  of  commas,  together  fur 
nishing  incontestable  proof  of  the  sex  of  Norah,  if  any 
were  wanting  after  that  eminently  feminine  letter.  And 
is  not  the  letter  itself  irresistible  ?  It  was  to  me.  I 
sallied  forth,  visited  every  studio  that  Norah  had  desig 
nated,  found  the  picture  I  fancied  she  was  most  inter 
ested  in,  wrote  a  criticism  thereupon,  and  received  a 
letter  of  thanks  from  the  artist.  Had  I  then  been  con 
tent,  all  would  have  been  well ;  but  I  must  needs  write 
a  "  Vagabond  "  article,  mentioning  these  facts,  when  in 
stantly  there  came  upon  me  a  shower  of  letters,  two  of 
which  I  append.  The  first  is  from  the  indignant 
artist : — 

"  '  And  must  I  ravel  out 
My  weaved  up  follies?' 

"  It  appears  I  must,  that  is  if  such  a  piece  of  folly  as  mine  can  be 
raveled -out,  for  while  I  simply  wrote  to  thank  you  for  what  seemed 
to  be  a  disinterested  love  of  Art  and  its  progress,  I  was  egregiously 
fooled  and  find  from  your  own  statement  that  your  kindness  was  no 
kindness  at  all,  but  merely  a  desire  to  please  an  unknown  correspon 
dent  who  nattered  you  into  flattering  me. 

"  Whoever  '  Norah '  may  be,  I  sincerely  thank  her  for  the  interest 
you  seem  to  think  she  takes  in  me  and  my  pictures,  but  I  very  much 
regret  the  injustice  you  do  me  in  attributing  the  matter  of  my  letter  of 
thanks  to  her  thanks,  which  I  regret  you  have  left  me  no  option  but 
to  recall." 

Pleasant  that — remarkably  pleasant!  I  don't  see 
why  he  need  be  so  testy.  What  if  I  did  go  to  his  studio 
at  Norah's  suggestion  ?  That  didn't  prevent  my  using 
my  eyes  when  I  got  there.  But  the  artist's  letter  is 
nothing  compared  to  Norah's.  Judge  for  your 
selves  : — 


My  Unknown  Correspondents.         169 

"  Oh  I  you  Prince  of  '  Vagabonds  I'  yo.u  most  ungenerous  of  all  un 
generous  critics  1"  (what  will  she  call  me  now,  I  wonder  ? — for  of  course 
I'll  catch  it  after  this  article)  "  to  blazo'n  forth  to  thy  hundred  readers 
and  perforce  admirers"  ('twas  she  underlined  that  perforce)  "that  I 
Norah,  had  written  to  theel"  (Tutoyant,  eh!)  "nay,  to  mention,  and 
doubtless  without  a  blush,  too,  the  very  subject  of  my  letter.  You 
vainest  of  mortals !  to  dream  that  my  communication  was  dictated 
through  admiration  of  thee,"  (I  leave  it  to  my  readers  if  that  wasn't 
a  fair  inference)  "and  not  from  interest  in  Art"  (witli  a  capital  A) 
"  and  its  professors.  Henceforth  the  fabled  Narcissus  sinks  into  utter 
insignificance  and  oblivion,  and  on  his  once  lofty  pedestal,  lo !  the 
'  Vagabond  '  stands  triumphant." 

I  suppose  she  thinks  that's  a  fine  sentence,  but  Narcis 
sus  didn't  have  any  pedestal. 

"So  'no  one  knows  thy  vanity?'  if  you  have  indeed  'laid  this  natter 
ing  unction  to  your  soul,'  discard  it  at  once,  and  for  ever,  my  dear 
Vagabond"  (the  hypocrite !  dear  indeed !)  "/  know  it,  the  readers  of 
this  journal  are  fully  aware  of  it !  The  whole  world  knows  of 
it.  Why  should  it  not?"  (I  refrain  from  any  remark.)  "You  have 
taken  pains  enough  in  all  conscience,  to  convince  us  of  its  extent,  nor 
in  good  sooth,  do  I  blame  thee  much ;  the  intellect  of  a  Cicero" 

And  here  she  becomes  so  utterly  flagrant,  so  pert,  so 
regardless  of  my  feelings  and  of  good  taste,  that  I  omit 
a  passage.  My  readers  lose  nothing,  I  assure  them. 

"  But  who  shall  believe  that  you  complied  with  my  request,  and 
wrote  a  criticism  upon  Art  ?"  (She  didn't  ask  for  one  on  art ;  look 
at  her  first  letter,  and  see  if  it  was  not  on  artists.)  "  Not  I  for  one — 
for  I  searched  every  column  of  every  newspaper  in  New  York  but  no 
critique  could  I  find,  save  and  except  one  that  bore  not  the  slightest 
trace  of  having  been  penned  by  your  illustrious  hand;  and  had  not 
my  continued  disappointments  at  length  checked  my  extravagance,  I 
should  have  finished  by  making  the  fortune  of  every  Editor  in  the  city 

8 


170  The  Vagabond. 

— but  supposing  for  the  sake  of  the  argument  that  you  visited  certain 
studios  and  criticised  certain  pictures?  what  then?  from  your  own 
confession,  which  I  have  in  print,  you  did  this  to  please  Norah"  (could  I 
have  had  a  better  motive  ?)  "  and  not  oh !  shame  upon  thee  for  a  Vaga 
bond"  (she  calls  hard  names,  too,  you  perceive,)  "not  from  the  love  of 
Art.  I  appealed  to  you  to  encourage  art  for  its  own  sake,  not  for 
mine"  (Oh I ! !)  "and  I  did  this  because  I  believed  you  to  be  fully  capa 
ble  of  the  task."  (A  little  more  truthful,  just  now.)  "  I  imagined 
you  to  possess  not  only  the  necessary  perception  of  the  beautiful" 
(coming  to  her  senses,  rapidly,)  "and  I  knew  from  experience  that  you 
could  boast  the  noble  faculty  of  speaking  honestly  your  honest  opinions 
— therefore  I  wrote,"  (a  good  reason,)  "but  had  I  for  a  moment  dreamed 
that  a  few  '  delicate  flatteries  and  felicitious  phrases'  I  quote  from  a  dis 
tinguished  personage  who  shall  be  nameless" — (she  means  me)  "could 
have  tempted  you  into  flattering  phrases  in  return,  I  never  had  ad 
dressed  you."  (Don't  believe  it.) 

Then  she  preaches  through  two  or  three  pages  of  let 
ter  paper  about  the  mission  of  art ;  but  after  a  while 
gets  personal  again : 

"  You  quietly  insinuate  that  you  know  Norah,  although  to  her  you 
are  unknown.  I  deny  both  positions.  I  know  the  mask  I  wear  is 
impervious  to  even  your  sharp  eyes,"  (now,  I'm  near-sighted,)  "and, 
moreover,  I  intend  that  it  shall  remain  so !  But  I  do  not  quietly  in 
sinuate  that  I  know  the  '  Vagabond' — I  boldly  assert  it !  and,  further 
more,  that  when  in  the  gay  saloon  or  crowded  thoroughfare  we  meet, 
I  re-adjust  my  mask,  wrap  close  round  me  my  mantle  of  invisibility, 
and  pass  on ! 

"So,  secure  for  the  present  in  my  cloak  of  mystery,  I  bid  the 
'  Vagabond'  adieu  I  and  defy  him !" 

There's  a  modest  conclusion  for  you.  Defy  ! — pretty 
language  for  a  young  woman  ;  for  I'm  sure  she's  young. 
About  her  knowing  me — I  fancy  she  meets  me  in  the 
"  crowded  thoroughfare"  oftener  than  in  the  "  gay 


My  Unknown  Correspondents.         171 

saloon."  I  confess  I  don't  know  her.  She  bade  thrf 
"  Vagabond"  adieu !  and  in  a  fortnight  I  had  another 
letter,  rather  more  civil  than  the  last,  in  regard  to  which 
I  leave  it  to  my  readers  to  say  whether  it  was  not  un 
called  for.  Didn't  I  do  just  as  she  desired,  and  did  I 
deserve  the  storm  of  reproaches  that  she  heaped  on  me? 
Letter  No.  3  ends  thus  : 

"What  subject  do  you' next  intend  your  fertile  pen  shall  embellish? 
I  know  one  that  you  could  dilate  on  admirably."  (Ahem!)  "Shall 
I  suggest  it?  Yes?  Well  then  'the  characteristics  of  American 
women  as  compared  with  those  of  other  countries.'  Hundreds  of 
people  have  written  upon  this  subject  you  will  say,  and  I  agree  but 
then  a  greater  number  have  written  art  criticisms  and  yet you  per 
ceive,"  (Rather  prettily  put,  that ;  the  implied  praise  is  so  delicate ;) 
"so  I  shall  wait  for  the  article,  whether  in  vain  or  not  the  future  must 
determine.  I  intended  writing  you  an  interesting  letter  and  feel  the 
pleasant  consciousness  of  having  failed,  most  lamentably — sometimes 
words  will  not  come  at  my  bidding,  at  another  time  my  pen  flows 
smoothly— as — as — the  Vagabond's." 

I  admit  she  can  turn  a  sentence  neatly,  and  she  cer 
tainly  has  some  discrimination. 

Next  came  a  letter  on  pink  paper,  some  time  in  June  ; 
'twas  just  after  I  had  discoursed  about  parties,  and  my 
unknown  friend  was  angry  because  I  defended  small  talk. 
She  wrote  better,  and  I  imagine  knows  more,  about  pic 
tures  than  parties.  I  burnt  the  letter ;  it  contained  no 
felicitous  phraseology.  The  last  communication  came 
upon  me  after  I  had  written  about  American  belles. 
Norah  seems  to  have  an  ideal  of  a  belle,  but  the  dear 
creature  forgets  how  different  the  ideal  is  from  the  real : 

"I  had  not  intended  writing  to  you  again,  and  notwithstanding 
your  last  clever  article  upon  Art  matters,  had  thus  far  bravely  kept 


172  The  Vagabond. 

my  resolution.  Now,  however,  I  have  before  me  your  last  letter  and 
after  perusing  it  my  indignation  is  so  intense  that  I  cannot  if  I  would 
be  silent.  '  If  you  write  snappishly  or  spitefully  /'  It  would  be  more 
to  the  purpose  if  jrou  had  said  ungenerously  and  untruly — pardon  my 
discourtesy,  oh !  most  courteous  of  Vagabonds  1  but  I  repeat  it  untruly. 
If  an  American  belle  is  the  creature  you  describe  her — then  do  I  most 
devoutly  thank  Fortune  that  I  am  not  the  one,  and  that  never  in  my 
wildest  or  vainest  moods  have  I  aspired  to  be  the  other."  (Norah's 
rhetoric  is  evidently  injured  by  the  violence  of  her  sentiments.) 

"  Yet  I,  too,  love  to  look  at  a  beautiful  girl  and  can  truly  admire  a 
brilliant  one ;  and  she  to  whom  nature  has  given  beauty  and  refine, 
ment,  whose  education  has  been  such  as  to  heighten  and  polish  every 
natural  gift,  who  can  be  grave  or  merry,  earnest  or  playful  as  the 
occasion  may  require ;  can  combine  wit  with  delicacy ;  and  who  even 
in  the  most  thoughtless  moments  forgets  not  her  proper  attribute  of 
womanliness ;  who  never  let  the  temptation  be  what  it  may — o'ersteps 
the  boundary  line  between  brilliancy  and  boldness,  and  who  utterly 
abhors — as  should  every  woman,  particularly  when  applied  to  her  own 
sex — that  hateful  word  fast — why  such  a  one  deserves  to  reign  a  very 
Queen  among  women  and  to  look  upon  all  mankind  as  her  most  devo 
ted  slaves." 

Quite  eloquent,  Miss  Norah ;  but  proving  that  your 
ideas  of  society  and  belles  are  formed  from  books  and 
your  own  fancy,  not  from  contact  with  the  originals ; 
your  picture  is  no  type. 

Doubtless  I  shall  be  inundated  with  letters  next  week ; 
but  I  warn  the  dear  creatures  who  expect  to  see  them 
selves  in  print,  that  unless  they  are  as  clever  as  Norah, 
their  expectations  will  be  disappointed.  And  Norah 
must  not  be  too  furious  at  my  liberties :  she  insists  that 
I  don't  know  her,  so  they  are  not  liberties.  She  assumes 
to  rate  me  for  my  follies :  eh  Men  !  I  don't  pretend  to 
be  free  from  follies  ;  only  it  is  usual  in  this  world  to  dis 
cuss  your  acquaintance  when  their  backs  are  turned.  If 


My  Unknown  Correspondents.         173 

you  do  otherwise  you  take  the  consequences.  I  have 
another  batch  of  letters  from  another  fair  one,  who  is 
even  more  pungent  and  decidedly  better-natured  than 
Norah;  perhaps  some  fine  morning  I  may  open  my 
budget  again. 


THE    COUNTRY, 

'A  babbled  of  green  fields." 

Henry  V. 


AND  what  should  set  one  to  babbling  of  green  fields  if 
not  the  heats  of  July  ?  What  should  incline  the  swelter 
ing  denizen  of  the  hot  city  to  dream  of  thick  shades  and 
overhanging  branches,  of  running  streams  and  rustling 
gales,  if  not  the  blazing  of  the  dog  star  and  the  sun 
that  shimmers  down  so  fiercely  on  streets  and  paving- 
stones?  I  know,  indeed,  that  banished  Bolingbroke  cried 
out  when  John  of  Gaunt  would  have  consoled  him,  he 
could  not  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand  by  thinking  of  the 
frosty  Caucasus :  but  is  it  always  so,  that  apprehension 
of  the  good  gives  but  the  greater  feeling  to  the  worse  ? 
I  fancy  myself  cooler  as  I  recollect  my  bath  of  yester 
day. 

Not  a  bath  in  a  tub,  just  my  own  length,  and  without 
room  to  turn  over  in,  but  a  bath  in  the  never-ceasing 
flow  of  a  mighty  river,  whose  tides  daily  and  nightly 
are  replenished  from  the  inexhaustible  ocean,  and  whose 
invigorating  waves  are  fragrant  and  briny  with  the  salt 
of  the  sea.  After  I  reach  a  white,  hard  beach  of  sand, 
skirted  by  a  wood  and  fringed  with  rocks,  sufficiently 
secluded  to  allow  an  absolute  return  to  the  garb  of 
Eden,  or  the  nudity  of  a  Grecian  statue,  "  sans  every- 


The  Country.  175 

tiling,"  while  I  stand  under  the  partial  shelter  of  an 
ancient  elm,  and  unrobe  my  heated  limbs,  how  deli- 
ciously  the  breeze,  gentle,  almost  imperceptible,  but  still 
delicious,  dries  up  the  dripping  beads  that  course  over 
my  body !  And  then,  alone  with  my  shadow,  and  bare 
as  at  my  birth,  to  walk  out  to  the  line  whither  the  tenth 
wave  comes,  and  let  the  water  from  frosty  Greenland 
wet  my  feet,  or  the  foam  of  a  tide,  borne  perhaps  from 
the  South  Pacific,  dash  against  my  legs !  After  standing 
a  moment,  gazing  at  the  white  caps  and  dancing  feathers 
of  the  heaving,  restless  river,  I  plunge  into  a  billow 
larger  than  the  rest,  and  am  enveloped  in  coolness  as  in 
a  garment.  I  think  of  Undine,  and  reach  out  my  arms 
to  embrace  a  water-nymph.  I  wonder  not  that  the  old 
Xorsemen  were  so  often  beguiled  by  dripping  mermaids. 
I  look  down  into  the  green,  glassy  depths,  and  expect  to 
see  the  outskirts  of  a  coral  grove,  or  hear  a  song  wafted 
upwards  from  the  sea  king's  palace  ;  and  rolling,  turn 
ing,  over  and  over,  round  and  round,  in  the  liquid  ele 
ment,  I  fancy  I  feel  the  metamorphosis  begin — I  am  my 
self  becoming  a  sprite. 

I  am  borne  along  over  the  surface,  or  just  beneath  it, 
gliding  gently,  but  finding  the  motion  at  once  exhila 
rating  and  voluptuous ;  a  tingling  sensation  of  pleasure 
extends  along  my  whole  frame.  I  arn  stronger  for  the 
exercise,  and  dash  out  faster ;  I  get  bolder  as  I  swim, 
and  stretch  my  feet  towards  the  shore.  I  turn  upon  my 
back,  and  folding  my  arms,  float  for  a  while,  looking  up 
into  the  blue  sky,  and  fancy  myself  suspended  in  mid 
air,  almost  immaterial,  almost  flying.  A  moment  ago, 
speeding  along  through  the  water  like  a  dolphin,  or  a 
sea  god  in  chase  of  a  nymph,  full  of  life,  and  my  blood 


176  The  Vagabond. 

coursing  quickly,  though  coolly,  through  my  veins  ;  now 
lying  in  one  element  and  gazing  into  another,  languidly, 
or  at  least  luxuriously,  borne  on  by  the  current.  I  think 
of  Egeria,  and  Neptune,  and  Arethusa,  and  all  the  beau 
tiful  mythology  of  the  sea,  so  much  more  exquisite,  so 
much  more  vraisemblable  than  fairy  lore  of  the  land.  I, 
remember  Teverino  taken  for  a  faun,  and  as  I  look  at 
my  own  limbs,  wonder  whether  I  too  might  become  a 
model.  I  never  thought  the  human  form  so  beautiful 
before;  I  never  thought  myself  a  faun  on  shore;  bat 
now  I  am  no  longer  surprised  that  Adam  and  Eve  went 
naked  in  the  garden.  I  agree  with  the  old  Greeks  and 
Winckelman,  that  nude  statues  only  are  tolerable. 

A  companion  joins  me  in  my  frolic,  and  we  return 
towards  the  shore ;  then  standing,  half-covered  by  the 
tide,  splash  each  other  with  storms  of  spray.  A  mimic 
battle  ensues,  till  blinded  by  the  snoAvy  shower,  each 
turns  his  back  on  the  foe.  We  wrestle  in  the  yielding 
element ;  we  call  ourselves  gymnasts  of  Spartan  breed, 
or  emulous  of  Olympic  combatants,  toss  each  other,  and 
race,  in  the  wave. 

Think  of  all  this,  ye  that  endeavor  to  stretch  your 
cramped  limbs,  and  strike  them  against  the  tinned  sides 
of  a  bath-tub  !  How  much  poetry  will  recur  to  you  as 
you  squeeze  the  sponge  over  your  shoulders  ?  Will  you 
think  of  the  ocean's  mane,  or  the*  story  of  Leander,  as 
you  turn  off  the  stop-cock  ?  And  you  that  bathe  pro 
perly  at  Newport  or  Long  Branch,  wrapped  up  in  robes, 
whose  attire  clings  so  becomingly  to  your  forms,  and 
allows  such  facility  of  motion  to  your  encumbered 
limbs ;  who  get  the  delightful  sensation  of  moist  gar 
ments,  and  keep  off  the  damp  sea  from  too  close  con- 


The  Country.  177 

tact  with  the  heated  frame,  you  envy  not  my  primitive 
fashion,  I  suppose. 

After  the  bath,  a  country  ramble,  across  meadows 
and  through  marshes,  hunting  turtles  and  gathering 
blackberries,  pricking  your  fingers  and  staining  your 
faces,  muddying  your  boots  and  tearing  your  trousers. 
*  Xone  of  your  formal  promenading  here.  Leave  that 
for  Broadway  or  Saratoga ;  we  are  far  enough  from 
either.  Away  from  the  road,  with  no  danger  of  meet 
ing  a  fine  carriage  full  of  fine  people,  whp  would  stare, 
perhaps,  at  our  plight ;  away  from  farm  houses,  and 
louts  who  would  bellow  to  us  to  get  out  of  that  corn, 
or  off  of  those  potatoes,  we  rambled.  Into  the  woods 
and  among  the  underbrush  ;  on  the  border  of  a  stream 
whose  tinkle  we  heard  in  the  high  grass ;  trampling  the 
blue  flags  and  splashing  among  the  bull-frogs ;  every 
now  and  then  frightening  a  bird  from  its  haunt  in  the 
reeds,  or  getting  frightened  ourselves  at  a  sudden  frisk 
of  a  grasshopper,  as  he  came  plump  in  our  faces.  Now 
we  can  scarcely  make  our  way  through  the  thick  growth 
of  shrubs  ;  the  branches  fly  back  in  our  eyes ;  the  grass 
is  higher  than  our  heads,  and  here  we  go,  knee-keep  in 
the  marsh;  we  must  be  near  the  stream.  We  stand 
still  to  listen  ;  the  crows  caw,  and  the  blackbirds  whistle, 
and  the  frogs  croak,  and  the  grasshoppers  sing,  and  the 
wind  rustles  so  that  we  can  scarcely  catch  the  purling 
sound;  but  at  last  my  ear  distinguishes  the  clear  sweet 
ripple,  and  in  a  minute  more  we  have  found  the  daik 
waters  of  the  brook. 

A  drink,  of  course ;  and  lying  flat  on  the  earth,  we 
lap  up  the  cool  water,  and  moisten  our  faces,  and  look 
in  the  mirror  that  Indian  girls  use,  and  wonder  who 


178  The  Vagabond. 

would  recognise  the  sun-burnt,  smeared  visages  there 
reflected  for  habitues  of  the  town.  I  am  not  an  angler, 
or  I  might  have  emulated  old  Isaac  Walton  for  a  while ; 
but  fishing  is  too  calm  a  pleasure  for  me.  The  tramp, 
and  the  woods,  and  the  stream,  and  all  the  accessories 
I  relish  well  enough,  but  not  quietly  waiting  an.  hour  for 
a  nibble.  Besides,  my  pole  always  breaks,  and  my  line 
is  sure  to  get  entangled  in  the  branches,  and  I  never 
drop  it  in  the  right  place,  and  I  can  never  get  the  right 
bait,  and  the  fish  will  never  bite.  So  I  would  rather 
stroll  till  I  am  tired,  and  then  fling  myself  down  on  the 
green  bank-side,  and  watch  the  stream  as  it  glides  or 
rolls  along ;  sometimes  turning  over  towards  an  opening 
in  the  trees  and  gazing  at  a  distant  hill-top,  more  often 
looking  straight  up  into  the  branches,  and  counting  the 
leaves,  and  tracing  the  form  of  the  tree  through  the 
foliage,  or  noting  the  delicate  harmonies  of  color — the 
sad  shading  of  the  bark,  the  rich  tint  of  the  leaves,  and 
the  exquisite  effect  produced  when  a  breeze  sets  all  the 
gentle  things  in  motion  and  shakes  light  and  color  down 
on  me. 

Then,  too,  I  have  a  fancy  for  lying  face  downwards ; 
for  making  acquaintance  with  the  inhabitants  of  the 
grass ;  for  watching  the  ants  travel  through  the  moss, 
and  the  beetles  cross  continents  of  sand.  I  peer  right 
down  into  the  mysteries  of  the  little  world ;  never  car 
ing  for  bites  and  stings  that  punish  my  curiosity,  heed 
less  of  the  swarms  of  black,  and  green,  and  yellow,  and 
red  dwarfs  that  get  on  my  face  and  swarm  on  my  body, 
Lilliputians  on  Gulliver.  How  busy  the  creatures  are, 
to  be  sure  !  The  broad  sun  that  burns  me  doesn't  dis 
turb  them ;  the  thick  shade  of  a  leaf,  or  the  reflection 


The  Country.  179 

of  a  mighty  spire  of  grass  protects  a  whole  colony  of 
insects. 

"  And  whither  fly  the  gnats  but  to  the  sun '?" 

Shakspeare  has  lain  in  the  grass  as  well  as  I. 

But  we  have  lounged  lazily  here  long  enough  :  I  must 
find  one  other  spot  ere  we  return.  We  follow  the 
stream,  sometimes  on  its  brink,  and  quite  as  often  in  its 
bed :  for  of  all  things  I  do  like  to  get  my  feet  wet,  to 
splash  right  in  the  waters  of  the  current.  I  retain  a 
vivid  recollection  of  the  whippings  I  got  as  a  boy  for 
this  very  thing,  and  the  charm  hasn't  worn  away  yet. 
I  dashed  in  yesterday  with  as  much  glee  as  if  I  expected 
to  be  spanked  when  I  got  home.  Up  the  stream  then, 
to  a  mimic  falls,  where  the  brook  widens  and  divides ; 
where  an  island  of  rocks  deepens  the  channel,  and  a  tiny 
cataract  eddies  and  foams  and  gurgles  in  the  prettiest 
way  imaginable.  The  trees  meet  overhead,  the  shade  is 
thick,  and  only  glimpses  here  and  there  of  blue  sky  can 
be  got ;  only  here  and  there  a  ray  of  the  broad  sunlight 
fleckers  the  wave  and  makes  it  seem  to  dance  more  mer 
rily.  The  water  must  be  two  or  three  feet  deep  and 
nearly  as  wide ;  it  quite  rages  in  one  particular  place, 
and  just  here  is  a  broad,  flat  rock,  where  I  have  sat 
many  a  time,  a  truant,  and  dabbled  in  the  whirlpool, 
and  listened  to  the  screaming  raven  that  had  a  nook 
hard  by.  How  glad  I  was  to  find  the  charm  not  broken  ; 
the  spot  is  as  cool,  the  trees  as  tall,  the  water  as  clear  as 
ten  years  ago.  I  have  seen  Niagara  and  St.  Anthony, 
the  St.  Lawrence  and  the  Ohio,  since  I  used  to  wonder 
at  the  Little  Falls,  but  I  liked  them  as  well  as  ever  yes 
terday. 


THE   WATERING-PLACES. 

"  Art  not  thou  thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion  too !" 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

A  VAGABOND  may  go  to  Saratoga,  I  suppose.  He 
may  drive,  and  driiik  the  waters,  may  he  not  ?  He  may 
bathe  at  Newport,  and  dance ;  and  he  may  like  all  this 
better  than  those  who  are  constantly  telling  how  stupid 
are  the  watering-places,  how  insipid  the  people,  how 
senseless  the  modes  of  passing  the  time.  True,  indeed, 
you  must  dress  in  the  morning,  and  you  must  dress  (at 
Newport)  for  the  bath,  and  again  after  it ;  and  you  must 
dress  for  dinner,  and  again  for  the  drive,  and  again  for 
the  evening.  True,  you  will  be  bored  by  stupid  and 
vulgar  people,  who  go  to  the  watering-places  as  they 
go  everywhere  else.  I  have  no  doubt  there  will  be  some 
in  heaven ;  but  would  you  stay  away  on  that  account  ? 
True,  you  are  incessantly  annoyed  by  the  consciousness 
of  suffering  unconscionable  extortions  ;  you  are  handed 
over  to  Morris  if  you  want  a  seat  at  the  grand  dinner, 
and  after  you  have  bargained  with  him  to  his  heart's 
content,  you  walk  in  and  expect  to  be  supplied.  Ah ! 
ignorant,  innocent  one !  where  ignorance  is  not  bliss, 
what  then  ?  Why,  make  haste  to  hand  Boston— that 
indifferent  black  behind  your  chair,  who  hears  you  not 
and  sees  you  not,  though  in  such  close  propinquity — 


The   Watering-places.  181 

make  haste,  I  say,  to  hand  him  what  shall  open  his  eyes 
and  unstop  his  ears ;  or  else  you  will  be  calling  for  soup 
when  your  neighbors  have  finished  their  Charlotte 
Russe.  All  this  is  vexatious,  I  admit. 

Then,  too,  you  have  other  sufferings  at  the  watering- 
places  :  you  are  cooped  up  in  a  room  not  so  large  as  you 
hope  your  coffin  will  be ;  your  accommodations,  if  you 
are  a  single  Vagabond,  are  of  the  most  peculiarly  lim 
ited  description  ;  your  washstand  primitive  in  its  form  ; 
your  bed — but  ask  me  not  to  describe  its  Procrustean 
horrors.  You  are  colonized,  perhaps ;  sent  off  to  sleep 
far  away  from  your  hotel,  and  compelled  four  or  five 
times  a  day  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  innumerable  eyes  as 
you  pass  to  the  colony,  before  the  luckier  ones,  who  only 
mount  a  few  stories  when  they  want  to  dress.  If  you 
dislike  dancing  and  gaiety ;  if  you  have  a  horror  of  pretty 
women  and  crinoline;  if  you  are  a  misanthrope  come  to 
drink  the  waters,  and  incensed  at  your  happy  fellow 
creatures  who  have  no  need  to  drink  them  ;  if  you  are 
suffering  from  the  gout,  or  some  other  complaint  brought 
on  by  the  excess  of  those  pleasures  which  the  young  and 
gay  are  now  sharing  around  you ;  of  course  all  this  life 
and  excitement,  this  constant  change,  this  amusement, 
annoys  you,  adds  to  your  misery.  The  music  of  Munck 
or  the  Germania  band  grates  on  your  ears ;  the  sight  of 
the  colonnade  at  the  United  States  after  dinner  is  a 
positive  pandemonium  to  you ;  and  you  wish  all  those 
fools  who  bathe  might  be  drowned,  all  those  healthy 
creatures  who  drink  the  waters  might  be  poisoned. 

But  no  such  testy  old  curmudgeon  reads  the  Vaga 
bond's  papers ;  if  any  ever  took  one  up,  he  quickly  threw 
it  down  again,  exclaiming  "The  forward  youngster!  the 


182  The  Vagabond. 

foolish  ignoramus !"  The  Vagabond  writes  not  for  those 
who  see  the  world  through  the  glasses  that  discolor  and 
distort :  the  Vagabond,  mayhap,  looks  with  no  certain 
vision  or  correct  gaze,  but  he  sees  such  beautiful  sights 
that  he  would  not  exchange  his  eyes,  imperfect  though 
they  be,  for  the  experienced  ones  of  any  grumbler  in 
Christendom.  The  Vagabond  sees  as  the  young  see  ; 
he  knows  that  thousands  of  others  are  in  his  company  ; 
that  a  goodly  number  feel  with  him,  think  with  him,  en 
joy  with  him  ;  are  enthusiastic  and  eager,  foolish  and 
fickle,  it  may  be,  but  they  enjoy  themselves ;  they  are 
a  class,  and  why  not  write  for  them  ?  Anacreon  cele 
brated  the  praises  of  the  vine  for  the  devotees  of  Bac 
chus  ;  Sappho  sang  of  love  and  had  her  audience :  have 
not  the  young  also  a  right  to  a  priest  ?  Shah1  I  not 
chronicle  their — our  fancies  ? 

The  young  enjoy  Saratoga.  The  Vagabond  enjoys 
Saratoga.  He  can  appreciate  all  the  discomforts  and 
yet  forget  them ;  he  can  admit  that  the  pleasures  coun 
terbalance.  And  is  there  really  nothing  to  be  said  for 
the  delicious  far  niente  ?  Is  it  not  delightful  to  sit  on 
the  wide  piazzas  after  dinner,  and  watch  the  brilliant, 
sauntering  crowd,  timing  their  talk  and  their  walk  to  the 
strains  of  "Lucia"  or  "Ernani  ?"  Is  there  no  pleasure  in 
a  stroll  under  the  old  elms  down  to  the  springs,  beside 
some  charmer  without  a  bonnet  ?  Is  there  nothing  to 
be  said  of  the  exhilarating  effect  of  the  waters  ;  nothing 
for  the  drive  to  the  lake ;  nothing  for  the  dinners  on 
its  banks,  and  the  sails  on  its  bosom  ?  Is  there  no  plea 
sure  in  meeting  friends  from  all  parts  of  the  country ;  in 
joining  the  brilliant  throng  after  nightfall ;  in  pacing  up 
and  down  with  Norah  by  moonlight  in  the  long  corri- 


The  Watering-places.  183 

dor,  looking  on  at  the  quadrille,  or  even,  ye  gods ! 
sharing  the  polka  with  Fanny  ? 

And  the  early  morning  hour !  meeting  X.  at  the 
springs  before  breakfast,  while  the  band  is  playing ; 
watching  her  in  that  exquisite  morning  costume,  a 
piece  of  good  fortune  you  don't  often  enjoy  in  town ; 
and  if  you  will,  quizzing  your  acquaintances  as  they 
make  wry  faces  over  the  thirteenth  glass.  The  varied 
characters  and  appeactfhce  of  this  little  world,  make  one 
feel  like  a  cosmopolite.  The  hobblilig  old  man,  the  gay 
ambassador,  the  stately  general,  the  plain  ex-President, 
the  brilliant  belle,  the  fashionable  Fitz  Frivol,  the  grave 
clergyman  from  the  Union  Hall,  the  weak  invalid,  the 
boisterous,  fast  young  man — surely  there  is  a  pleasure 
to  be  gleaned  in  watching  all  these  phases  of  society. 

Another  phase  not  many  have  watched,  I  fancy  :  not 
many  have  gone  to  the  springs  in  the  evening,  when  the 
ladies'  maids  drink  the  water.  It  is  delightful  to  see 
the  Abigails  promenade  down  the  hill.  As  their  mis 
tresses  wear  no  bonnets  at  Saratoga,  the  servants  are 
of  course  in  the  mode  ;  they  have  thrown  their  coarse 
shawls  over  their  shoulders  in  humble  imitation  of  that 
graceful  negligence  which  was  so  irresistible  in  the 
morning;  and,  indeed,  I  saw  more  than  one  elegant 
lace  that  I  had  worshipped  because  it  enveloped  the 
form  of  some  Norah  or  Fanny,  wound  around  a  great, 
coarse  creature  later  in  the  day.  Then  they  play  off 
their  airs  at  second-hand  in  the  most  amusing  manner  ; 
they  inquire  how  their  friends  are  affected  by  the 
waters ;  they  ask  how  you  like  the  hotel ;  whether  you 
prefer  Saratoga  to  Newport,  and  exclaim  how  dull  are 
all  the  watering-places  this  year. 


184  The  Vagabond. 

Newport  has  delights  all  its  own :  the  magnificent 
drives  and  the  invigorating,  exhilarating  bath.  One  of 
the  oddest  sights  in  the  world  is  the  crowd  assembled 
daily  on  the  Newport  beach  to  bathe.  First,  there  is 
the  long,  hard,  smooth  beach,  with  the  great,  green 
waves  rolling  mightily  up,  and  breaking  in  a  line  of 
surf  on  its  edge  ;  there  is  the  distant  reach  of  the  sea, 
and  the  fresh  breeze  cooling  you  on  the  hottest  of 
August  mornings.  In  the  back-ground,  the  row  of 
quaint  little  bathing-houses,  as  small  as  the  prison  cells 
at  Auburn  or  Sing-Sing.  Into  these  enter  the  gay 
children  of  fashion,  sometimes  bedight  with  care,  and 
gather  up  their  extended  robes  as  they  crowd  through 
the  narrow  door,  or  stoop  their  lofty  heads  for  luck ; 
and  save  a  few  stragglers  or  lookers  on,  the  beach  is 
nearly  bare,  for  a  while.  One,  here  and  there,  more 
expeditious  than  the  others,  first  peeps  out,  and  finally 
ventures  forth  from  the  chrysalis ;  but  the  brilliant  but 
terfly  is  gone,  and  a  thin,  lank  figure,  ridiculously  clad, 
scarcely  reminds  us  of  the  elegant  creature  that  disap 
peared  so  short  a  while  ago.  While  we  are  wondering 
and  laughing  at  the  metamorphosis,  a  whole  troop  sal 
lies  forth,  looking  as  wild  and  uncouth  as  Indians ; 
bare-footed  (delicate,  tiny,  white  feet  you  can  see,  if 
you  look  sharp),  bare-headed,  or  else  with  the  oddest 
of  straw  hats  tied  down  in  the  oddest  of  fashions,  and 
such  robes!  Turkish  trousers  and  Spanish  doublet,  a 
cosmopolitan  costume.  You  can  scarcely  tell  a  man 
from  a  woman ;  you  can  scarcely  distinguish  your 
acquaintances.  You  cannot  find  the  graceful  charmer 
who  was  to  be  your  partner  in  the  bath !  Ah !  here  she 
comes,  shambling  along ;  her  eyes,  however,  sparkle  as 


The  Watering-places.  185 

brightly  as  ever;  you  would  know  her  anywhere  by 
them ;  and  taking  her  hand  (how  soft  it  is,  to  be  sure, 
and  how  tight  you  may  hold  it  now),  you  run  together 
into  the  sea. 

But  we  are  to  be  lookers-on  to-day ;  we  are  to  notice 
the  comical  figures  of  our  friends  as  they  rush  in  and 
out ;  the  ungainly  attempts  at  dignity  of  some  in  their 
unwonted  costume;  the  gleesome,  childish  folly,  and 
frolic  of  the  others.  We  are  to  hear  the  laughing  tones, 
the  occasional  whoop  of  fun,  the  scream  of.  half-felt  ter 
ror  from  some  timorous  maiden,  as  her  lusty  lover 
plunges  the  little  head  into  the  tenth  wave.  We  are 
to  watch  the  sports  till  the  bathers  are  tired,  and  then 
we  have  a  sport  of  our  own.  It  was  funny  to  see 
them  go  in  ;  to  notice  the  attempts  at  finery  and  the 
fanciful  dresses ;  the  pink  trimmings  and  the  blue  bind 
ings.  But  what  is  it  to  see  them  come  out  ?  Their 
dark,  dripping  garments  clinging  close  to  the  form,  re 
vealing  every  outline,  and  that  not  gracefully ;  their 
hats  broken,  and  their  hair,  mayhap,  dishevelled  ;  their 
feet  tender  and  tripping,  and  they  conscious  of  the  sorry 
sight  they  present,  yet  not  more  than  half  ashamed  ;  too 
busy  laughing  at  each  other  to  care  for  themselves,  they 
run  up  hastily  to  their  little  dens.  One  or  two  fat  old 
dowagers  endeavor  to  stalk  statelily,  but,  unluckily, 
waddle  instead.  One  or  two  incorrigibly  vain  maidens 
endeavor  to  pull  out  the  wet  trousers  from  their  legs, 
and  spread  the  scant  allowance  of  skirt  into  an  imitation 
of  crinoline  ;  but  they  only  make  themselves  more  ridi 
culous.  The  best  way  is  to  accept  the  unavoidable  evil, 
and  laugh  at  it.  You  are  ridiculous  in  bathing  costume, 
certainly.  If  you  are  as  graceful  as  a  houri,  or  as  finely 


i86  The  Vagabond. 

formed  as  Apollo,  your  grace  and  beauty  are  effectually 
concealed. 

The  bath  is  fine  while  you  are  in  the  water,  but 
marvellously  relaxing  in  its  effect  afterwards.  You 
are  fain  to  drive  to  your  hotel ;  you  hurry  to  your 
chamber,  and  order  a  strengthening  draught.  They 
say  the  most  delicate  females  feel  the  need  of  a  restora 
tive,  and  the  glasses  clink  for  an  hour  along  the  passages  ; 
and  then  all  the  world  sleeps  till  it  is  time  to  dress  for 
dinner.  Two  or  three  lounge  into  the  bowling-alleys,  or 
practise  in  the  pistol-gallery ;  but  most  prefer  to  recruit 
themselves  for  the  after  fatigues  and  pleasures  of  the  day. 

The  drive.  How  can  I  describe  the  drive !  The  proces 
sion  of  carriages  filled  with  gay  and  beautiful  faces, 
recruited  from  each  hotel,  winds  along,  it  may  be  to  the 
old  fort,  to  listen  to  the  music,  or  to  Bateman's,  to  look  at 
the  sea.  The  drive  to  Baternan's  is  one  of  the  most  magni 
ficent  I  ever  enjoyed.  The  sea  views  are  superb,  and  the 
air  so  invigorating,  the  roll  of  the  waves  so  musical,  the 
glance  at  the  white,  tossing  crests  so  inspiring,  that  I  won 
der  not  it  is  a  favorite.  The  horses,  too,  leel  the  influence, 
and  prance,  and  trot  or  run  more  eagerly  ;  the  ladies 
glance  more  brightly,  and  smile  and  bow  more  gra 
ciously  ;  the  sun  sets  more  brilliantly  than  elsewhere. 
And  you  will  tell  me  'tis  all  stupid  frivolity,  this  enjoy 
ment  ;  that  those  who  best  know  how  to  enjoy  themselves 
are  mistaken ;  that  those  who  make  pleasure  the  study 
and  business  of  their  lives,  do  not  know ;  that  the  distin 
guished  and  cultured  people  who  for  years  have  resorted 
to  watering-places  are  all  fools;  that  Ems  and  Baden- 
Baden,  and  Nassau  too,  afford  no  delight ;  that  Saratoga 
and  Newport  are  only  fit  for  vagabonds.  Perhaps  'tis  so. 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

"  That's  the  scene  that  I  would  see." 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

I  RECOLLECT  once  watching  a  distinguished  historian 
peep  through  the  crevices  in  his  stage-box,  poke  his  fin 
gers  into  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and  spend  nearly  the  entire 
act  of  a  play  in  vain  endeavors  to  peer  behind  the 
scenes.  He  took  off  his  gloves,  he  tried  opera-glass  and 
eye-glass,  he  was  as  persevering  as  Robert  Bruce,  or  his 
spider,  but  less  fortunate,  and  at  last  was  fain  to  content 
himself  with  the  performance  on  the  stage.  And  who, 
like  the  historian,  has  not  longed  to  penetrate  the  mys 
teries  of  that  hidden  world  ?  Who  has  not  been  curi 
ous  about  the  coulisses  f  Who  has  not  wondered  what 
they  do  in  the  green-room  and  at  rehearsal  ?  The  plays 
that  pretend  to  give  pictures  of  an  actor's  life  are  always 
popular;  the  novels  that  treat  of  similar  subjects  are 
sure  to  be  read.  The  success  of  Peg  Woffington  was  half 
attributable  to  its  vivid  descriptions  of  the  demi-monde. 
And  how  delighted  we  all  were  to  see  Rachel  in  "Adrienne 
Lecouvreur,"  studying  her  part  of  Roxane.  To  be  sure 
Pendennis  got  disenchanted  when  he  met  the  Fotherin- 
gay  off  the  stage,  and  George  Sand  describes  a  theatre 
by  daylight  as  the  most  doleful  of  places  :  I  never  shall 
forget  the  dismal  impression  I  got  from  reading  the 


i88  The  Vagabond. 

pages  in  "Consuelo,"  where  the  Berlin  theatre  is  so 
grimly  portrayed.  But  the  reality  is  not  so  bad.  Ask 
Wilhelm  Meister. 

The  first  time  I  ever  was  behind  the  scenes  was  at  the 
old  Vauxhall  Gardens,  years  ago.  A  party  of  us  boys 
got  on  the  stage  by  day,  and  without  the  knowledge  of 
the  attendants;  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  rehearsal 
was  over,  and  nobody  there.  We  rummaged  the  property- 
room,  we  discovered  the  theatrical  wardrobe,  we  han 
dled  the  pulleys,  and  finally  raised  the  curtain  and  acted 
a  play.  It  was  glorious  sport ;  I  remember  looking  out 
of  a  stage  balcony,  and  spouting  verses  to  one  of  my 
comrades  beneath  ;  I  remember  wearing  a  great  wig 
and  a  sword,  and  that  some  of  us  were  mufiied  in  ermine 
robes,  and  stalked  majestically  across  the  boards — only 
my  sword  would  get  between  my  legs,  and  my  fellow 
nearly  broke  his  neck  by  falling  through  a  trap-door. 
We  especially  liked  to  change  the  scenes ;  the  promp 
ter's  bell  rang  every  two  or  three  minutes,  and  the 
curtain  rose  and  fell  amazingly  often.  Finally,  we  got 
more  perfect  in  our  parts,  and  determined  to  have  an 
overture  performed;  so  one  of  us  jumped  into  the 
orchestra,  and  found  some  instruments  left  there.  The 
next  thing  I  remember  was  an  alarm  that  the  usher  was 
coming,  "  for  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon,"  and  we  scam 
pered  away  without  regard  to  stage  directions,  or  exits 
to  the  right.  We  stood  not  upon  the  order  of  our 
going;  but  went  at  once.  My  hiding-place  was  in  a 
barrel,  prepared  for  the  farce  that  night,  and  when  I 
emerged  I  was  blacker  than  soot.  However,  the  usher  did 
not  discover  our  retreats,  so  we  lay  quiet  until  dark,  and 
then  ran  home.  That  very  night  I  sat  in  front,  and  how 


Behind  the  Scenes.  189 

strangely  familiar  everything  looked  to  me,  who  had 
been  initiated.  I  wondered  no  longer  at  the  apparitions, 
and  was  particularly  indifferent  to  the  balcony  scene ;  I 
recognised  our  ermine  on  the  stage  king,  and  thought  of 
the  trap-doors  as  he  strode  so  bravely  on. 

That  adventure,  however,  was  soon  forgotten ;  I  had 
not  thought  of  it  in  a  dozen  years  till  I  sat  down  to 
write  this  paper.  The  next  time  I  went  into  the  cou 
lisses  was  under  very  different  circumstances.  It  was  at 
night ;  the  play  was  on ;  I  stood  in  the  wings,  among 
the  scene-shifters  and  supernumeraries,  the  managers, 
and  prompters,  and  call-boys — all  huddled  together  in 
strange  confusion.  Some  were  bedizened  in  theatrical 
tinery,  others  clad  in  ordinary  gear ;  a  noble  in  silk  and 
satin,  and  paste  jewels,  by  the  side  of  a  workman  with 
his  sleeves  rolled  up ;  Pizarro  talking  with  Mr.  Smith, 
and  the  principal  actress  scolding  her  waiting-maid.  In 
the  midst  of  my  conversation  with  an  actor,  he  would 
rush  upon  the  stage,  declaiming  furiously,  and,  if  the 
scene  was  short,  return  and  take  up  his  last  remark 
exactly  where  it  had  been  discontinued.  What  particu 
larly  amazed  me  was  the  indifference  of  the  actors  to 
their  parts.  Poor  innocent  I,  had  imagined  that  they 
were  all  so  in  earnest,  so  devoted  to  their  art,  so  identi 
fied  with  the  characters  they  assumed,  whereas  they 
never  seemed  to  think  of  them  a  moment  after  they  left 
the  stage.  Before  entering,  they  smoothed  down  their 
finery  as  a  peacock  would  his  plumage,  and  got  ready 
for  a  stage  strut ;  but  as  for  any  thought  of  Sir  Peter 
Teazle  or  Claude  Melnotte,  in  the  wings,  you  might  as 
well  look  for  it  at  a  Methodist  camp-meeting.  They 
would  ask  after  brandy,  or  remark  how  poor  the  house 


190  The  Vagabond. 

was,  or  joke  with  the  actresses,  or  swear  at  the  scer.e- 
shifters  ;  but  the  grace,  or  dignity,  or  fervor,  so  wonder 
ful  or  winning  when  seen  from  the  front,  was  not  percep 
tible  behind  the  scenes.  This  is  true,  I  suppose,  of  actors 
generally. 

But  I  have  been  with  those  who  identified  themselves 
with  their  parts.  I  have  been  shown  to  my  box  by 
Hamlet  in  all  his  trappings  and  suits  of  woe,  and  with 
all  the  courteous  and  princely  demeanor  that  became 
the  Dane.  I  have  talked  with  Romeo  in  his  dressing- 
room,  when  he  could  not  and  did  not  divest  himself  of 
his  splendid  manner  or  his  intense  feeling  any  more 
than  of  his  doublet  and  hose.  When  Macready  played 
Richelieu,  he  coughed  and  shambled  as  much  off  the 
stage  as  on.  The  great  tragic  actors,  too,  are  often 
excessively  exhausted  after  playing ;  not  only  physically 
fatigued,  not  only  unable  to  rise  without  assistance, 
after  a  fall  or  a  death-scene,  but  intellectually  wearied  as 
well.  I  have  known  them  laid  on  a  board  panting  and 
perspiring  for  some  minutes  after  a  great  point.  Talma, 
they  say,  had  always  to  be  wrapped  in  a  cloak  and  car 
ried  from  the  theatre ;  Mrs.  Siddons  would  sob  for  an 
hour  after  one  of  her  great  performances;  and  I  have 
been  with  some  of  these  geniuses  who  were  excessively 
excited,  as  if  by  wine,  for  half  the  night,  after  the  play. 
The  immense  tax  upon  nerve  and  brain,  as  well  as  the 
corporeal  exertion  necessary  in  the  playing  of  great 
parts,  of  course  makes  them  strangely  unlike  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

And  how  strange  a  thing  it  is,  this  genius !  You  may 
be  talking  all  day  with  a  man  or  woman,  perhaps  study 
ing  with  them  the  very  part  they  are  to  play  at  night, 


Behind  the  Scenes.  191 

quarrelling  over  their  readings,  criticising  their  con 
ceptions,  and  then  go  and  see  them  transformed,  cry 
over  the  very  line  you  thought  they  misapprehended, 
shudder  at  the  gesture  you  declared  would  be  ridicu 
lous,  and  applaud  as  vigorously  as  any  one  at  the  act 
ing  you  contended  against  all  day.  There  is  no  form  in 
which  genius  manifests  itself  so  palpably  as  this  of  his 
trionic  sort ;  there  is  no  phase  of  humanity  that  is  more 
a  mystery  to  me.  What  talent,  or  perseverance,  or 
study  can  accomplish  is  not  wonderful,  is  at  least  com 
prehensible.  If  you  cannot  do  it  yourself,  you  can 
understand  how  it  is  done.  But  this  marvellous  inspira 
tion  that  comes  down  on  a  man  as  suddenly  and 
strangely  and  unaccountably  to  the  actor  as  to  the 
audience — that  transfigures  him  before  your  face,  like 
Rachel  in  "  Polyeucte  "  or  young  Booth  in  "  Richelieu" — 
this  surpasses  in  strangeness  any  other  gift  vouchsafed  to 
the  race.  A  man  may  write  a  poem,  or  paint  a  picture, 
that  shall  move  you  as  much  or  more  than  anything  on 
the  stage ;  but  the  palpable  presence  and  influence  of 
genius  are  not  so  felt  as  when  it  works  on  the  man  him 
self;  when  his  own  soul  and  body  are  his  tools  and  his 
material.  Nothing  in  life  or  art  strikes  me  as  so 
wonderful. 

However,  to  go  to  rehearsal  with  these  people  who 
get  so  inspired ;  to  watch  Othello  mumbling  his  part,  or 
Desdemona  sitting  down  in  a  chair  in  the  fifth  act,  and 
saying  in  ordinary  tones,  "Oh!  oh!  oh!"  these  being 
the  rehearsal  of  her  death  groans ;  this  is  not  so  wonder 
ful.  I  was  amazed,  when  I  first  went  to  a  rehearsal, 
that  no  more  labor  was  bestowed  on  the  business.  I 
went  to  the  wings  to  see  an  actor  whom  I  knew.  He 


192  The  Vagabond. 

stood  on  the  stage,  talking  with  a  well-dressed  woman, 
and  I  concluded  not  to  approach  him.  He  looked  at 
me  and  bowed,  but  did  not  offer  to  speak,  and  after  a 
while  I  discovered  that  he  was  rehearsing.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  me  before.  In  the  middle  of  a  speech 
from  Shakspeare  they  interpolate  directions  to  the  other 
players ;  they  stop  short  in  some  exquisite  line  to  sug 
gest  an  entrance  from  the  left ;  in  fact,  they  rehearse 
only  the  words  and  the  positions.  All  the  effects,  all 
the  tones,  the  action,  the  facial  expression  is  omitted,  or 
slurred  over;  the  dead  words  are  recited  without  a 
particle  of  feeling,  and  the  positions,  where  two  or 
more  actors  are  concerned,  are  gone  through  with.  If 
a  star  is  rehearsing,  he  gives  his  orders  how  he  shall  be 
supported,  tells  this  poor  devil  when  to  approach  and 
when  to  go,  the  other  subordinates  how  to  emphasize 
that  line,  so  that  star  may  not  lose  his  point,  and 
arranges  matters  generally  so  as  to  suit  himself,  and  pro 
duce  the  greatest  effect;  which  is  all  very  proper,  but 
cannot  be  extremely  agreeable  to  the  second-rate  people, 
as  they  may  be  supposed  to  have  sensibilities,  if  not 
position  or  talent. 

In  the  middle  of  a  scene,  the  cue  will  be  given  for 
an  actor  not  on  the  stage,  and  you  hear  the  call-boy 
shout—"  Othello !  Othello !"  Othello  may  be  in  front 
talking  with  his  friend,  and  clambers  over  the  orchestra 
up  to  his  place  ;  and  in  Othello  this  is  forgiven ;  but  if 
Cassio  should  attempt  an  improper  entrance,  he  is  sent 
back  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage.  Then  DeSdemona 
cannot  be  found,  and  the  last  speaker  repeats  his  cue 
half  a  dozen  times,  while  the  call-boy  looks  for  the 
gentle  Desdemona,  and  she  comes  hurriedly  on  without 


Behind  the  Scenes. 


the  handkerchief.  If  we  stay  for  the  farce,  we  shall  see 
the  stage  manager  paying  more  attention  ;  he  has  to  be 
civil  to  the  stars  ;  he  cannot  interrupt  them  when  their 
readings  do  not  suit  him,  but  he  revenges  himself  upon 
the  stock  company.  He  snubs  the  pretty  little  waiting- 
maids,  and  orders  about  the  Boxes  and  Coxes  in  grandi 
loquent  style.  These  receive  his  directions  with  pro 
found  submission  and  contempt.  The  ballet-girls 
rehearse  too  :  they  lean  against  the  wings  and  stick  up 
their  legs,  and  you  wonder  where  is  the  grace  that  brings 
down  the  house  in  the  evening.  Opera  rehearsals, 
many  of  my  readers  have  attended  ;  and  Philharmonic 
rehearsals,  who  does  not  know  of  them?  They  are 
not  so  piquant,  though  perhaps  as  interesting,  as  a  visit 
behind  the  scenes. 


LAKE  GEORGE. 

"  Let  his  silver  water 
Keep  a  peaceful  progress." 

King  John. 

To  be  sure,  the  Howadji  has  discoursed  eloquently 
of  Lake  George ;  to  be  sure,  others  have  written 
about  its  beauties,  and  the  magazines  have  furnished 
historical  and  pictorial  information  concerning  Tea  Island 
and  Ticonderoga :  what  need,  indeed,  for  me  to  inflict 
my  fancies  on  those  who  look  for 

"Something  new  and  strange." 

But,  Lake  George  is  new  to  me.  Its  enchanting  love 
liness  first  broke  upon  my  eyes  last  week ;  I  then  first 
sailed  on  its  placid  waters,  and  watched  the  shadows  as 
they  fell  upon  its  softened  hills  ;  I  last  week  first  clam 
bered  over  the  gentle  slopes  along  its  sides,  and  rambled 
around  the  still  recesses  of  its  clustering  islands ;  by  the 
brink  of  the  cascades  that  fall  into  its  bosom,  and 
through  the  cool  thickets,  where  I  could  gaze  my  fill  at 
the  witching  and  varying  charms  of  nature  in  her  most  de 
lightful  garb.  Why,  then,  should  I  not  tell  how  drunk 
I  got  with  beauty  ?  Why  should  I  not  revive  to  those 
familiar  with  the  effects  of  clouds,  and  hills,  and  sun 
shine,  and  moonlight,  and  clear  water,  and  sparkling 
waves  and  mirrored  groves,  as  they  are  all  blended  in 


Lake  George. 

Lake  George  ;  why  should  I  not  endeavor  to  recall  to 
them  arid  me  the  charms  so  fresh  and  so  enchanting  ? 
Why  should  I  not  essay  to  picture  to  those  who  have 
not  yet  been  gladdened  by  the  delicious  beauty  of  Hori- 
con,  the  peculiarities  that  make  it  a  spot  unequalled  in 
the  New  World  ?  Then,  too,  all  things  beautiful  and 
fair  are  ever  young,  are  always  new ;  we  never  tire  of 
scenes  familiar  to  us  from  childhood,  if  they  possess  a 
real  loveliness.  And  nature  conies  to  us  in  so  many 
moods,  under  such  various  aspects,  that  it  is  sometimes 
worth  while  to  know  how  she  affects  another  mind. 
When  one  is  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  a 
landscape,  the  earliest  impression  quite  subsides  ;  the 
charm  of  novelty  is  gone,  and  in  its  stead  that  of  friend 
ship  and  intimacy  is  substituted ;  we  are  won  by  another 
guise  than  that  by  which  we  first  were  wooed.  Let  me 
then  tell  how  the  loveliest  spot  in  America  first  im 
pressed  the  Vagabond. 

And  first,  I  have  never  been  abroad.  I  know  of  Como 
and  Geneva,  only  by  description,  by  pictures  and  by 
imagination.  I  have  fancied  for  myself  a  lake  in  Italy, 
from  hearing  Claude  Melnotte's  exquisite  story,  as  who 
has  not  ?  I  have  studied  prints  of  those  Swiss  views, 
till  I  almost  know  them.  I  am  sure  I  shall  greet  Mont 
Blanc  and  Luzerne  as  old  acquaintances.  Byron  has 
made  me  familiar  with  the  monarch  of  mountains,  and 
lovely  women  have  told  me  tales  of  embosomed  lakes  and 
towering  hills,  of  picturesque  towns  and  crumbling  ruins 
on  their  sides,  that  with  the  charm  of  such  association 
have  become  indelible  in  memory.  Indeed,  my  recollec 
tions  of  Lake  George  are  firmly  fixed,  if  only  because 
I  heard  an  accomplished  and  beautiful  creature  recite 


196  The  Vagabond. 

"Manfred,"  as  we  sailed  together  on  its  bosom,  and 
compare  the  Highlands  and  Bolton  with  the  hills  around 
Geneva,  Nature  showered  all  delights  on  lucky  me ; 
and  I,  perhaps,  am  not  a  fair  judge  of  the  beauties  of 
Lake  George  :  a  tamer  spot  would  have  seemed  superla 
tive.  Still,  others  agree  in  remembering  its  charms  ; 
only,  if  one  wants  to  see  it  to  the  best  advantage,  he 
should  be  so  fortunate  as  to  go  thither  in  company  with 
those  whose  society  and  sympathy  add  a  new  zest  to  the 
highest  pleasure. 

To  one,  then,  who  has  no  memories  of  Europe,  but 
who  has  seen  most  that  America  claims  of  lovely  or 
grand,  Lake  George  seems  lovelier,  and  if  not  grander, 
more  absolutely  natural  than  all  besides.  The  natural 
ness  is  as  great  a  charm  to  me  as  the  surpassing  beauty. 
I  hate  your  village  scenery ;  I  like  nature  unadorned. 
These  detestable  cottages  and  aspiring  towns  that  infest 
all  beautiful  spots  ;  these  intrusions  of  man  into  the 
sacred  places  of  nature — Actreon  ever  in  Diana's  bathing- 
place — this  thrusting  of  vulgar  shops  and  hideous  houses 
into  the  wildest  recesses  and  most  secluded  groves,  I 
cannot  abide.  I  want  either  town  or  country  ;  the  ab 
solute,  crowded  excitement  of  a  great  city,  or  the  pri 
vacy  of  woods  and  streams.  Cultivated  scenery  has  no 
charm  for  me  ;  farming  countries  and  grazing  countries, 
nicely-painted  barns  and  wells,  crowing  cocks  and  grunt 
ing  pigs  I  leave  for  those  who  affect  domesticity ;  who 
like  Herring's  pictures  of  farming  life.  I  cannot  away 
with  them.  I  want  groves  which  you  can  fancy  the 
dryads  of  antiquity  would  love  to  haunt ;  streams  that 
you  look  into  in  search  of  Arethusa  ;  spots  where  Tita- 
nia  and  Puck  may  come  upon  you  unawares ;  river-sides 


Lake  George.  }gj 

where  the  culprit  fay  might  strive  to  catch  the  drop 
as  it  falls  from  the  leaping  sturgeon.  And  such  a  spot 
is  Lake  George.  When  you  glide  over  its  waters,  into 
some  nook  that  reminds  you  of  Virgil's  exquisite 

"Est  in  secessulongo," 

or  peep  between  branches  where  the  Mohicans  would 
still  find  themselves  at  home,  and  where  indeed  the  tra 
ditions  of  the  red  men  yet  linger,  you  can  throw  aside 
all  thoughts  of  the  outer  world.  ~No  curling  smoke  re 
minds  you  of  culinary  proceedings  ;  no  glaring,  white 
washed  boards  recall  petty  village  scandal ;  no  aping, 
gothic  turret  bespeaks  the  bad  taste  of  aspiring  citizens. 
You  may  sail  between  the  islands,  looking  down  into 
the  clear  water  of  the  lake,  and  watch  the  fishes  as  they 
chase  each  other  far  below,  or,  mayhap,  catch  glimpses 
of  the  pebbly  bottom ;  you  may  gaze  at  the  sky  and 
banks  reflected  there,  or  looking  upwards,  watch  the 
fleecy  clouds  lazily  lingering  on  the  mountain  summit, 
or  rolling  serenely  along  in  the  higher  ether.  I  was 
struck  with  the  important  part  that  clouds  and  sky  bear 
in  a  landscape.  You  never  picture  to  yourself  a  beau 
tiful  or  awful  scene  without  imagining  the  firmament ; 
you  never  gaze,  especially  at  a  distant  view,  without 
taking  in  as  much  of  heaven  as  earth.  Not  only  do  the 
shadows  flecker  the  hillsides,  and  soften  the  outlines, 
and  vary  the  effect ;  not  only  do  the  clouds  descend  to 
the  heaving  bosom  of  earth  as  she  holds  it  up  to  the 
sun  ;  not  only  are  the  blue  ether  and  the  white  heaped 
up  cumuli  reflected  in  the  mirroring  lake  ;  but  the  sky 
itself,  with  the  varying  shades  of  rain  cloud  and  fine 
cirri,  the  big,  white  billows  of  the  cumulus,  all  enter 


198  The  Vagabond. 

into  the  composition  of  the  scene.  The  peculiar  effects 
of  morning  and  evening  skies,  the  gorgeous  tints  of  sun 
rise  and  sunset,  of  course  are  as  remarkable  as  any 
beauties  of  the  lower  world. 

All  these  I  watched  on  Horicon.  It  rained  one  day 
on  the  distant  hills,  and  so  shut  out  a  portion  of  the 
view  ;  but  after  a  while,  the  soft  grey  curtain  lifted,  and 
showed  a  green  hill  lighted  up  by  sunshine,  lying  far 
behind.  A  glimpse  was  all  we  caught,  ere  the  cloud 
descended,  and  we  were  ourselves  enveloped.  I  sat  on 
the  wide  piazza,  looking  down  the  lake,  to  watch  the 
breaking  up  of  the  rain  storm ;  to  count  the  peaks  a« 
they  came  into  view,  seeming  almost  to  descend  to  us  out 
of  the  clouds ;  to  get  sight  of  a  patch  here  and  there 
of  woods,  while  all  around  was  grey;  to  see  the  first 
sunbeam  strike  the  water,  which  gladly  sparkled  back  in 
recognition  ;  to  follow  with  my  eyes  the  storm  as  it 
passed  away,  and  left  the  surface  of  the  lake  glittering 
with  a  purer  brightness,  the  wooded  hills  clad  in  a  fresher 
green,  the  heavens  refulgent  with  a  clearer  blue. 

Ah,  me!  those  rounded  hills,  that  winding  lake,  those 
dotting  islands !  How  can  I  imagine  them  !  I  have  said 
nothing  but  what  might  be  said  of  any  lovely  scene  ;  I 
have  given  no  idea  of  the  enchanting  loveliness  of  Lake 
George.  How  can  the  fleeting  beauties  of  clouds  and 
sky  be  caught  and  caged  in  words ?  How  can  the 
evanescent  glories  of  morning  and  evening  be  painted 
with  pen  or  pencil  ?  How  can  the  superlative  grace, 
the  wild  picturesqueness  of  the  masterpiece  of  God  be 
described  by  a  creature  ?  Man  can  only  strive  to  ap 
preciate.  And  yet,  I  cannot  stop  without  again  attempt 
ing  to  say  wherein  consists  the  peculiar  charm  of  this 


Lake  George.  199 

charming  spot.  Its  entire  naturalness  I  have  already 
adverted  to :  its  fringed  islands,  scattered  all  around,  and 
taking  every  form,  add  vastly  to  the  effect.  They  are 
small  and  large,  wooded  and  bare,  rocky  and  plain ; 
narrowing  the  channel  at  times  ;  again,  one  just  dotting 
the  wide  expanse.  Some  are  covered  to  a  considerable 
height  with  thick  woods ;  some  just  crested  with  a  sparser 
foliage  ;  some  so  tiny,  they  were  fit  mooring  for  the 
bark  of  Oberon ;  others  suggest  the  ambush  of  a  dusky 
tribe.  Then  the  wonderful  variety  and  exquisite  forms 
that  the  hills  assume,  coming  down  at  times  to  the  lake 
abruptly,  and  shutting  it  in  to  a  narrow  gorge,  through 
which  it  winds  almost  like  the  Hudson  at  West  Point ; 
rising  again  to  a  lofty  height  away  off  in  the  distance, 
and  leaving  the  waters  to  spread  out  into  a  broader  sheet. 
Now  softly  moulded  into  forms  that  remind  you  of  the 
exquisite  outlines  of  womanly  grace,  now  jagged  and 
abrupt,  but  ever  beauteous  rather  than  grand.  The  pic- 
turesqueness  is  always  subdued  into  grace  ;  the  wildness 
is,  if  not  tamed,  yet  softened.  It  is  the  wildness  of  an 
Indian  girl,  fresh,  exquisite  in  outline,  charming  in  grace, 
varying  in  expression  and  tender  in  everything ;  not  the 
grandeur  of  a  mountain,  or  a  cataract,  or  a  Mohican 
chief.  Rightly  was  it  named  Horicon — the  sparkling 
water ;  rightly  was  it  called  the  Sacrament — the  sacred 
lake;  rightly  do  they  baptize  its  jutting  capes — Sabbath 
day  ;  the  stillness  and  the  glad  sparkle  combine  to  make 
it  a  place  for  all  pure  and  beautiful  thoughts. 


THE  HOWADJI. 

"  Respue,  quod  non  es." 

PEKSIUa 

MOLIERE,  you  know,  used  to  read  his  plays  to  his 
housekeeper,  and  if  she  laughed  at  the  "  Precieuses 
Ridicules"  or  "Le  Medicin  Malgre  Lui,"  the  great 
comedian  was  satisfied.  So  I  sometimes  show  the  manu 
script  of  a  paper  to  a  confidante  (notice  the  final  e)  and 
am  sure  to  receive  a  sincere  criticism.  I  told  Confidante 
I  was  going  to  write  about  the  Howadji.  Confidante 
thought  the  subject  was  injudiciously  chosen ;  Vagabond 
could  not  discover  the  injudiciousness:  Confidante  insisted 
that  the  discussion  would  be  too  personal ;  that  I  would 
descant  upon  Mr.  Curtis  as  a  lecturer  and  a  political 
speaker,  as  well  as  a  writer;  that  there  had  been  no 
recent  event  to  render  such  a  discussion  timely ;  that  I 
had  no  right  to  say  anything  about  him  except  in  his 
literary  character.  Vagabond  replied  that  Mr.  Curtis's 
entire  public  career  was  fairly  open  to  comment ;  that  he 
was  a  subject  sure  always  to  prove  interesting;  and  that 
he  had  within  a  short  while  afforded  a  topic  of  discussion 
to  the  newspapers  by  his  political  address  at  a  college 
anniversary.  Who  was  right — Confidante  or  Vaga 
bond  ? 

The  admiration  with  which  Mr.  Curtis  has  been  re- 


The  Howadji.  201 

garded  by  so  many,  has  of  late  been  diminished  in  certain 
quarters.  The  detour  he  has  made  into  the  domain  of 
politics,  has  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war  upon  him,  and  many 
think  havoc  was  not  cried  in  vain.  I  do  not,  indeed, 
consider  his  success  entire  in  this  new  career.  I  heard 
him  speak  in  the  political  campaign,  a  year  ago,  more 
than  once  or  twice.  I  have  read  both  of  his  scholarly 
and  exquisitely  beautiful,  but  illogical  and  ill-timed 
harangues  before  college  societies  ;  and  though  I  recog 
nise  sufficient  evidence  of  a  riper  mind  and  a  more 
manly  tone  ;  though  the  very  thing  that  was  previously 
lacking  in  his  efforts  appears  now  to  be  infused  into 
them,  a  purpose  and  an  aim ;  yet  so  many  tares  are 
mingled  with  the  wheat,  he  seems  to  me  to  have  done  so 
many  of  those  things  that  he  ought  not  to  have  done, 
that  the  doing  of  those  things  he  ought  to  have  done 
scarcely  atones.  I  cannot  congratulate  him  upon  the 
result  of  his  political  endeavors.  The  bad  taste  of 
intruding  his  own  notions  and  forcing  his  own  doc 
trines  upon  a  mixed  assembly,  one  anticipating  a  purely 
literary  entertainment,  cannot  be  excused  because  of  his 
sincerity,  or  because  of  his  belief  in  the  importance  of  his 
theme.  Neither  can  his  own  eloquent  apology  be  accept 
ed.  I  remember  very  well  to  have  read  the  opening  of 
his  oration  at  Middleton  till  my  blood  tingled.  I  remem 
ber  to  have  felt  all  the  force  of  his  splendid  illustrations 
of  the  scholar's  duty  in  a  great  crisis  not  to  remain  idle 
or  indifferent.  I  acknowledge  the  poetry  of  his  thoughts, 
the  charm  of  his  expressions,  and  the  rich  array  of  orna 
ments  with  which  he  set  them  forth.  But  supposing 
everything  to  have  been  as  he  claimed  it ;  supposing  his 
ideas  on  politics  to  have  been  correct,  and  admitting  the 


2O2  The  Vagabond. 

force  of  his  adjurations  and  illustrations,  I  could  not  dis 
cover  their  pertinency.  He  proclaimed  the  scholar's 
duty,  but  that  duty  was  not  to  be  performed  in  the 
place  and  under  the  circumstances  that  Mr.  Curtis 
selected.  All  that  he  said  would  have  been  appropriate 
at  a  political  meeting,  or  in  an  assemblage  of  cultivated 
men  convened  to  discuss  public  matters,  or  anticipating 
such  an  oration  as  Mr.  Curtis  delivered  ;  but,  thrust 
upon  an  audience  to  many  of  whom  it  might  have  proved 
offensive,  and  to  all  of  whom  it  must  have  been  unex 
pected,  it  was  ill-timed,  ill-judged,  and  inappropriate. 

Neither  do  I  think  these  efforts  we*e  successful, 
regarded  simply  as  political  efforts.  That  their  literary 
merits  are  great  is  undoubted.  They  are  finer  written 
than  any  other  of  Mr.  Curtis's  productions  ;  they  con 
tain  passages  full  of  genuine  and  tender  feeling,  and 
exquisite  in  melody  as  the  syllables  of  Italian  poetry; 
they  are  rich  in  beautiful  thoughts,  and  overlaid  with  orna 
ment  ;  at  times  indeed,  rather  profuse  in  embellishment, 
and  so  exceedingly  mellifluous  that  the  sweetness  cloys ; 
at  times  so  elaborate  that  the  wealth  of  illustration  seems 
almost  ostentatious ;  but,  on  the  whole,  delightful  com 
positions — until  their  author  approaches  the  core  of  his 
subject,  until  he  attempts  to  deal  with  harsher  matter 
than  is  fit  for  his  delicate  handling.  When  he  leaves  his 
rounded  periods  and  historical  allusions,  when  he  gets 
from  Galileo  and  Milton,  and  summer  skies,  and  flowers 
and  breezes,  to  political  history  and  political  economy, 
he  is  not  so  successful.  His  mind  is  not  logical ;  he  can 
not  make  out  his  case;  he  cannot  even  make  these  heavier 
matters  interesting.  I  have  read  many  a  political  dis 
quisition,  many  of  the  speeches  on  both  sides  of  last 


The  Howadji.  203 

year's  campaign,  many  a  newspaper  article  from  the 
Charleston  Mercury  or  the  New  York  Tribune,  that  was 
vastly  preferable  to  Mr.  Curtis's  attempts ;  many  an 
effort  from  the  hands  of  men  greatly  his  inferiors  in  ele 
gant  culture  or  poetical  fancy,  that  was  more  telling, 
more  convincing,  more  successful  than  the  political 
endeavors  of  the  Howadji.  His  luxurious  muse  was 
more  at  home  lounging  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  or 
lotus-eating  at  the  Catskills  or  Niagara. 

Yet  I  own  to  have  felt  a  warm  glow  at  some  of  his 
generous  enthusiasm ;  I  believe  him  to  have  been  very 
much  in  earnest ;  I  appreciated  his  fervor,  and  acknow 
ledge  that  he  did,  here  and  there,  infuse  some  of  it  into 
his  orations ;  but  it  was  in  those  portions  less  distinctly 
political ;  it  was  when  he  could  talk  of  Leonidas,  or  gild 
his  phrase  with  the  pomp  of  rhetoric. 

The  Howadji  has  a  youthful  ardor  which  cannot  fail 
at  times  to  stir  the  blood,  but  I  do  not  think  he  possesses 
the  rarer  power  of  reaching  the  heart.  His  eloquence 
may  in  time  be  moulded  into  something  like  the  per 
fection  of  Mr.  Everett's  style,  which  is  that  of  Thalberg 
— the  most  consummate  art ;  the  very  perfection  of  ela 
boration  ;  the  crowning  elegance  that  Cicero  attained  in 
his  full  and  polished  periods;  but  Mr.  Everett,  though 
he  is  a  prose  poet,  and  pleases  your  fancy  and  tickles 
your  ear,  though  he  delights  your  taste  and  satisfies 
your  intellect,  never  moves  you,  never  comes  near  your 
heart.  Nor  do  I  think  Mr.  Curtis  will  ever  attain  this 
highest  and  last  result  of  oratory.  The  way  to  the  hearts 
of  men  is  known  but  to  few ;  it  is  never  discovered  by 
research ;  'tis  found  by  a  clue  that  those  who  possess 
may  use,  but  never  impart.  So,  with  all  the  warmth 


204  The  Vagabond. 

of  Mr.  Curtis,  with  all  his  earnestness,  greater  now 
than  Everett's,  he  never  seems  to  me  to  have  hold  of 
this  clue  through  the  labyrinthine  passages  that  lead  to 
the  human  heart.  He  seems  not  to  possess  genius. 

His  political  speeches,  made  at  mass  meetings,  were 
not  so  fine  as  the  more  elaborate  efforts  I  have  spoken 
of;  they  especially  lack  the  Demosthenean  vigor  so  ne 
cessary  on  the  hustings.  He  spoke  often  in  covered 
rooms  and  when  the  front  seats  were  reserved  for  la 
dies,  and  he  could  not  always  refrain  from  saying  a  word 
or  two  for  the  ladies,  whose  especial  favorite  he  is.  His 
arguments  were  either  derived  from  analogy,  or  weak ; 
his  appeals  invariably  lacked  force ;  his  highest  sallies 
failed  of  effect.  He  always  spoke  agreeably  and  some 
times  wittily,  but  too  nicely  for  the  occasion.  Though 
he  evidently  took  great  pains  not  to  be  fine,  though  he 
tried  hard  to  use  cant  terms  and  slang  phrases,,  they 
would  not  come  readily  from  his  tongue ;  he  could  not 
speak  the  speech  trippingly;  he  could  not  saw  the  air 
with  his  hand — thus;  he  could  not  split  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings.  And  it  is  not  only  the  groundlings  who 
want  their  ears  split  at  a  political  meeting ;  the  best  in 
formed  and  the  best  cultured  prefer  a  telling  speech  to 
an  elaborate  one.  Mr.  Curtis  knows  this  as  well  as  any 
one,  and  endeavored  to  conform  himself  to  the  require 
ments  of  the  situation ;  but  nature  did  not  second  his 
endeavor.  She  had  not  intended  him  for  this  purpose, 
and  would  not  allow  him  to  wrest  himself  from  what  she 
designed ;  so  the  Howadji  did  not  succeed  as  a  political 
speaker. 

His  purely  literary  career  has  been  often  discussed ; 
in  parlors  and  libraries  as  often  as  in  newspapers  and 


The  Howadji.  205 

magazines.  All  the  reading  world  has  read  the  "  Poti- 
phar  Papers  "  and  the  "  Lotus  Eating ;"  all  New  York 
and  Boston,  and  I  do  not  know  how  many  other  cities, 
went  to  his  lectures.  I  have  recently  read  one  or  two  of 
his  works  again :  "  Prue  and  I,"  in  its  collected  form, 
and  the  "  Nile  Xotes ;"  one,  among  the  earliest,  the  other 
almost  the  latest  of  his  avowed  productions.  They  are 
both  characteristic.  In  both  I  find  the  same  richness  of 
fancy,  the  same  sweet  tooth  that  will  have  mellifluous 
phrases  and  gorgeous  images.  The  pomp  of  the  east 
and  the  luscious  odor  of  the  lotus,  are  renewed,  and  re 
vived,  and  repeated  till  one  is  sated.  His  luxuriant  style 
is  very  well  for  a  while,  or  at  times,  but  palls  at  last. 
It  is,  however,  relieved  by  a  vein  of  sarcasm,  to  which 
he  might  with  advantage  more  frequently  resort.  There 
is  a  point  in  his  irony,  a  sharpness  in  his  satire,  that  one 
relishes  after  the  unalloyed  sweets  that  he  lavishes.  I 
wish  he  would  cultivate  this  talent  more  assiduously, 
and  let  the  other  alone.  The  skill  displayed  in  the  "Po- 
tiphar  Papers,"  though  it  was  the  skill  of  a  neophyte, 
yet  would  warrant  him  in  making  other  eiForts.  Though 
he  was  much  given  to  exaggeration,  and  his  satire  often 
degenerated  into  caricature,  there  was  still  a  wisdom  in 
his  wit,  a  likeness  in  his  caricature,  that  proved  he  had 
not  mistaken  his  talent. 

I  like  him  better  as  an  essayist  or  a  sketcher  of  man 
ners  than  as  a  critic.  I  did  not  often  agree  with  his 
judgment  of  the  great  novelists  ;  I  could  not  set  Dickens 
so  far  above  Scott ;  I  did  not  find  all  the  geniality  in 
Thackeray  that  he  discovered  ;  I  do  not  recognise  King- 
slcy  as  a  master  spirit.  I  am  not  a  disciple  in  that  school 
in  literature  Avhose  doctrines  Mr.  Curtis  has  so  warmlj 


206  The  Vagabond. 

espoused.  But  it  is  not  only  because  I  do  r.ot  concur  with 
his  criticisms,  that  I  do  not  admire  them.  I  have  read 
many  able  and  eloquent  disquisitions  with  whose  conclu 
sions  I  entirely  disagreed.  But  I  did  not  detect  in  Mr. 
Curtis's  lectures  any  peculiar  critical  acumen  ;  he  opened 
my  eyes  to  no  new  merits  in  his  subjects ;  he  dissected 
them  not  with  any  extraordinary  skill ;  he  set  their 
characters  in  no  new  light ;  he  gave  me  no  new  ideas 
about  the  modern  British  novelists.  When  he  sketched 
the  men  or  the  times  in  which  they  lived,  he  was  graceful 
and  vivid ;  he  was  always  interesting  and  frequently 
witty ;  but  his  lectures  scarcely  made  a  definite  or  an 
abiding  impression ;  they  simply  afforded  an  agreeable 
mode  of  spending  an  evening. 

I  believe  some  work  is  reserved  for  Mr.  Curtis  more 
suited  to  his  talent  than  any  he  has  yet  undertaken. 
I  confess  myself  one  of  his  admirers  ;  I  find  a  fascina 
tion  in  almost  everything  he  writes,  though  upon  calmly 
considering  it,  I  frequently  see  nothing  so  wonderful ; 
but  the  fascination  proves  the  power :  and  there  are 
thousands  like  me,  in  this  regard.  The  man  who  can 
exert  this  influence  must  have  something  in  him,  I  shall 
be  glad  when  it  comes  out.  Spider-like,  let  him  spin 
the  web  that  shall  entangle  us  all  in  its  meshes.  I,  for 
one,  am  very  willing  to  be  enthralled. 


CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 

"  DON  PEDRO. — Maybe  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 
CLAUDIO. — Faith,  like  enough." 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

I  HAVE  no  doubt  that  many  who  witnessed  Miss  Cush- 
man's  performance  of  Meg  Merrilies  were  glad  to  re 
mind  themselves  that  what  they  saw  was  counterfeit ; 
they  were  glad  to  shake  off  the  horrible  impression  left 
by  that  weird  figure,  that  ghost-like  movement,  that 
crazy  face,  that  shrieking  voice.  Many  have  told  me 
that  they  could  not  sleep  after  seeing  this  acting ;  the 
tall,  gaunt  gipsy  haunted  their  dreams,  the  wild,  un 
earthly  tones  startled  them  from  their  pillow,  the  fierce 
eyeballs  glared  through  the  dark  night  on  them.  Many, 
too,  have  told  me  that  the  acting  is  overdone  ;  that  the 
conception  and  execution  of  this  part  are  beyond  what 
Scott  imagined,  are  melodramatic,  are  too  frightful  to 
be  natural.  And,  indeed,  I  think  Scott  never  imagined 
so  strange  a  creation  as  that  which  Miss  Gush  man  em 
bodies.  I  think  the  actress  in  this  transcends  the  novel 
ist;  her  imagination -is  wilder  than  Scott's;  she  docs 
carry  his  idea  beyond  anything  indicated  in  "  Guy  Man- 
nering."  But  so  much  the  more  praise ;  so  much  the 
more  admiration  have  I  for  the  actress  who  combines  an 
imagination  to  conceive  with  the  surpassing  ability  to 


208  The  Vagabond. 

execute  so  singular  an  idea  as  that  of  Meg  Merrilies, 
That  Miss  Cushman's  idea  is  exaggerated,  I  cannot  ad 
mit.  It  is  utterly  unlike  anything  not  only  on  the  stage, 
but  with  which  in  real  life  we  are  now  familiar ;  but  I 
can  find  nothing  in  it  extravagant.  It  verges  upon  the 
supernatural ;  it  is  great  enough  for  one  of  the  witches 
of  "  Macbeth ; "  it  is  as  grotesquely  terrible  as  Hecate 
herself;  but  no  more  untrue  to  itself,  no  more  unnatural 
when  you  consider  the  type,  than  the  horrors  of  the 
Eunienides,  or  the  grandeurs  of  the  sisters  three.  Feel 
ing  and  intellect  are  both  made  manifest,  and  that  inde 
finable  something  that  invests  the  whole,  and  makes 
what  would  otherwise  only  be  repelling,  truly  great ; 
that  makes  tragedy ;  that  is  akin  to  the  awe  inspired 
by  the  "Inferno"  of  Dante,  or  the  incantations  of 
"Der  Freischutz." 

The  embodiment  of  this  idea  is  perfection.  From 
the  first  rush  upon  the  stage,  which  almost  takes  away 
your  breath,  and  the  fixed  attitude,  the  strained  limb 
and  eye,  when  Meg  recognises  Harry  Bertram,  to  the 
last  shriek  of  exultation  and  the  death  rattle  in  her 
throat,  all  is  great.  Not  only  eminently  effective  at  the 
moment,  but  vivid  and  wonderful  in  the  recollection  ; 
not  only  startling  when  you  see  it,  but  equally  so  when 
you  think  of  it  afterwards.  The  character  loses  its  re- 
pulsiveness  to  me.  I  see  the  dirt  and  rags  ;  I  see  the 
wrinkles  and  elf-locks,  the  wild  eye  and  the  shrivelled 
limbs ;  I  hear  the  hoarse  and  broken  tones  of  age  and 
passion,  the  convulsive  laughter  and  the  gritting  teeth  ; 
but  with  all  these  I  see  and  hear  more.  I  see  the  creature 
inspired  to  foretell  and  accomplish  the  restoration  of  an 
ancient  house  ;  full  of  the  passion  of  her  race,  yet  with  one 


Charlotte   Cushman.  209 

sympathy  that  connects  her  with  humanity  ;  tender  and 
earnest  when  she  thinks  of  her  bairn. 

The  crooning  over  Bertram's  hand,  the  tears  that 
blind  her  eyes  when  she  fain  would  gaze  into  his  face, 
the  sobs  that  choke  her  utterance  in  striving  to  speakhis 
name,  make  the  old  hag  human  ;  awake  sympathetic  emo 
tions  even  for  Meg  Merrilies :  for  she  owns  an  affection, 
that,  in  its  holiness,  as  well  as  in  its  intensity,  is  anything 
but  unnatural. 

The  fact  that  Miss  Cushman  has  contrived  to  crowd 
all  this  character  into  the  few  lines  given  her  in  the 
abortion  of  a  play  that  is  put  upon  the  stage,  makes  her 
abilities  all  the  more  admirable.  What  Scott  only 
hinted  at,  even  in  the  pages  of  description  and  narrative 
allotted  to  Meg  in  the  novel,  the  great  actress  has  seized 
upon,  amplified,  developed,  and  then  compressed  into  a 
few  scenes,  a  few  words.  Her  marvellous  talent  for 
what  is  technically  called  "  making  up,"  presents  us 
with  the  picture  that  lives  so  indelibly  in  our  memory ; 
her  exquisite  elocution  enables  her  to  accommodate  her 
voice  to  the  necessities  of  the  unusual  situations  of  the 
play,  to  break  it  with  age,'to  thicken  it  with  the  choking 
sensation  of  death,  to  loosen  it  in  the  cry  of  agony,  to 
repress  it  to  the  hollow  murmur  of  despair  ;  while  the 
genius  that  makes  her  feel  so  acutely  the  proprieties  of 
the  character  is  only  equalled  by  the  consummate  art  that 
dictates  and  accomplishes  such  touches  as  her  sliding, 
sidelong  gait ;  her  frantic  but  significant  gestures  ;  her 
attitudes,  so  ungainly,  but  so  wildly  expressive,  that  they 
speak  more  forcibly  than  words.  I  can  conceive  of  no 
more  "exact,  no  more  effective  picture,than  that  afforded 
by  Miss  Cushman's  performance  of  Meg  Merrilies. 


21  o  The  Vagabond. 

But  in  nothing  else  do  I  so  admire  her.  In  Romeo  and 
Rosalind  she  is  intellectual ;  she  reads  with  an  exqui 
site  appreciation  of  the  language  and  the  sentiment,  and 
especially  of  the  wit  of  a  part ;  her  gestures  are  always 
full  of  meaning,  are  always  appropriate,  are  occasionally 
fine  ;  her  intonations  generally  please  a  scholar  and  a 
man  of  taste ;  but  she  entirely  fails  to  move  me  in  either 
part,  and  in  her  conception  of  each  character  she  differs 
entirely  from  my  own  idea.  Romeo,  indeed,  I  have 
never  seen  played  to  suit  me.  I  have  seen  one  who 
looked  a  Romeo,  who  had  all  the  beauty  and  voice  I 
fancy  in  the  love-sick  Montague,  but  who  failed  entirely 
to  infuse  any  spirit  into  the  words  he  lavishes  on  his 
mistress  ;  and  Miss  Cushman  so  fails  to  look  the  charac 
ter,  that  this  alone  would  prevent  my  deriving  any 
satisfaction  from  her  performance.  Then  her  actions 
are  not  youthful,  her  manner  not  sprightly,  her  tones 
not  spirited,  her  passion  not  intense  enough  for  the  lover 
of  Verona.  Her  Rosalind  lacks  the  captivating  sim 
plicity,  the  arch  coyness,  that  I  look  for  in  the  merry 
maid  of  Ardennes.  It  proves  that  she  has  no  comic 
talent.  The  lightness,  the  grace,  the  ease,  the  charming 
vivacity  of  comedy,  are  talents  not  vouchsafed  to  her 
who  plays  Meg  Merrilies.  Siddons  and  Rachel,  before 
her,  discovered  that  the  tragic  muse  receives  no  divided 
homage. 

Neither  am  I  so  gi-eat  an  admirer  of  Miss  Cushman 
in  her  more  womanly  characters.  I  prefer  Miss  Heron 
to  her  in  Bianca,  and  Rachel  in  Tisbe.  With  her 
rendering  of  the  former  part,  one  could  not  but  be 
greatly  pleased ;  I  acknowledge  the  force  and  expres 
sion  of  her  attitudes,  the  correctness  of  her  gene- 


Charlotte  Cushman.  2 1 1 

ral  conception,  and,  above  all,  the  admirable  taste  of 
her  reading.  Everything  indicated  a  careful  student, 
an  accomplished  artist,  one  who  appreciated  thoroughly 
the  thought  of  her  author  ;  but  the  performance  failed 
to  affect  me.  I  did  not  once  experience  that  intense 
emotion  Miss  Heron  caused  in  the  same  play.  I  re 
member  distinctly  that  in  all  rendering  of  womanly 
feeling,  in  harrowing  tenderness,  in  terrific  agony  and 
in  the  mad  remorse  of  the  close,  Miss  Heron  was  supe 
rior.  She  kept  you  in  a  constant  state  of  excitement ; 
you  had  no  time  to  criticise  ;  you  were  shivering  or 
choking  by  turns.  When  Miss  Cushman  played  Bianca, 
I  was  cold ;  I  admired,  I  observed,  I  perceived  what 
was  done  and  what  was  left  undone  ;  I  was  on  the  look 
out  for  sensations  that  she  did  not  arouse. 

And  in  Tisbe,  oh !  how  sadly  I  felt  the  contrast  be 
tween  her  and  the  great  Frenchwoman  !  Miss  Cush 
man  was  powerful,  effective,  excellent ;  she  gave  a  coarse 
picture  in  strong  colors  and  masculine  outlines,  a 
wild,  fierce  creature,  a  real  Bohemian  ;  but  again  she 
failed  to  move  me,  though  I  confess  I  saw  handkerchiefs 
in  use  around  me.  But  in  this  play  I  noted  especially 
the  inferiority  of  Miss  Cushman,  not  only  to  Rachel,  but 
to  many  other  great  geniuses  of  the  stage.  Here  she 
was  not  truly  tragic  :  she  was  only  dramatic.  She 
lacked  entirely  the  classic  grace,  the  ineffable  dignity, 
that  clothed  the  creations  of  Rachel ;  she  was  earthly 
and  common  ;  she  was  not  at  all  imaginative.  Rachel 
in  Tisbe,  was  the  very  incarnation  of  Italy.  The  stately 
mistress  of  a  Paduan  duke,  the  haughty  actress  pour 
ing  out  curses  on  a  guilty  duchess,  the  suspicious  crea 
ture  glaring  around  the  bedchamber  of  a  rival,  the 


212  The  Vagabond. 

gipsy's  daughter  saving  her  whom  she  hated,  were  by 
the  great  Jewess  all  rendered,  not  only  so  as  to  move 
you  with  terror  and  sympathy,  but  so  as  to  provoke  your 
admiration  too.  There  was  a  symmetry,  a  statuesque 
beauty,  an  enchanting  grace  that  one  would  look  for 
in  vain  in  Miss  Cushman's  Tisbe. 

I  seldom  have  been  able  to  detect  true  tenderness 
in  Miss  Cushman  ;  I  have  seldom  noticed  real  womanly 
feeling.  Those  characters  in  which  she  excels  are  mas 
culine  ;  the  Meg  Merrilies  has  no  touch  of  femininity  ; 
and  in  whatever  there  is  of  great  about  anything  else 
she  does,  it  resembles  or  approaches  this ;  a  tone,  a  ges 
ture,  if  it  be  effective,  recalls  something  in  Meg  Mer 
rilies.  She  is  a  person  of  unmistakable  ability,  but 
of  very  limited  expression  of  that  ability ;  of  much 
greater  talent  than  genius ;  whose  excellences  are  mostly 
acquired ;  of  greater  intellect  than  feeling  ;  possessed  of 
profound  insight  into  character,  rather  than  inspired 
with  an  appreciation  of  it.  She  does  things  by  rule  ;  she 
learns  by  heart ;  she  studies  and  perfects  herself;  she  is 
not  of  those  whose  limbs  quiver  with  emotion  they  know 
not  how,  whose  eyes  light  up  with  a  fire  that  burns 
within  them  they  know  not  whence,  whose  tones  speak 
a  passion  that  descends  upon  them  irresistibly  like  the 
afflatus  of  a  god. 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 

"  For  "Warwick  is  a  subtle  orator." 

3  Henry  VI. 

THE  palmy  days  of  eloquence  are  past ;  the  press  has 
become  in  a  great  measure  the  substitute  for  the  orator. 
Men  are  no  longer  stirred  up  as  the  Greeks  were  by 
Demosthenes,  or  the  Roman  populace  by  Cicero,  to  the 
accomplishments  of  great  deeds — the  resistance  of  an 
invasion,  or  the  suppression  of  a  conspiracy.  Peter  the 
Hermit,  if  he  wanted  to  preach  a  new  crusade,  would 
advocate  it  in  the  newspapers,  and  Kossuth,  considered 
by  many  the  greatest  of  living  orators,  derives  his  fame 
not  so  much  from  his  speeches  themselves  as  from  their 
publication  next  day.  Let  him  who  is  inclined  to  doubt 
this,  compare  for  one  moment  the  effect  produced  by  a 
leader  in  the  columns  of  a  daily  newspaper  published  in 
this  metropolis,  and  that  of  an  unreported  speech  de 
livered  by  the  most  eloquent  or  the  most  famous  of  our 
orators.  Will  you  tell  me  that  the  speeches  are  reported, 
and  so  have  their  effect  ?  Yes,  but  what  then  becomes  of 
the  three  essentials  of  oratory — the  action — action — ac 
tion  of  Demosthenes  ?  Delivery,  according  to  Quintilian, 
is  as  important  to  the  orator  as  invention  ;  but  of  what 
importance  is  delivery  to  the  orator  at  Washington  who 
addresses  us  in  New  York  ?  What  do  we  care  for  the 


214  The  Vagabond. 

grace  or  awkwardness,  the  sluggish  or  animated  manner, 
the  harsh  or  musical  voice  of  the  speakers  whose  words 
alone  reach  us  ?  The  orator  is  on  a  level  with  the 
writer  now-a-days.  I  am  indifferent  whether  Pope  was 
a  hunchback  or  Elia  stammered  ;  and  who  is  concerned 
at  the  bad  delivery  of  Seward  or  the  false  accents  of 
Douglas,  when  he  reads  their  speeches  in  the  daily  prints  ? 
If  their  arguments  are  cogent,  their  diction  fine,  their 
style  pleasing — manner,  delivery,  action,  is  of  no  conse 
quence.  And  is  this  oratory !  Oratory  that  moved 
masses  of  men ;  that  was  invented  by  the  gods ;  that  was 
compared  to  the  honey  of  Hybla  and  the  afflatus  of 
Apollo  ;  oratory,  that  persuades,  and  excites,  and  terri 
fies  ;  oratory  like  that  which  was  sparkling  in  Sheridan, 
and  scathing  in  Randolph,  magnificent  in  Burke,  insi 
nuating  in  Clay,  overwhelming  in  Pitt,  and  everything 
all  at  once  in  Mirabeau  ! 

True,  there  are  speakers  now-a-days — speakers  at 
political  meetings  and  in  legislative  halls  ;  but  these  are 
infinitely  more  anxious  to  have  their  addresses  well  re 
ported  than  to  produce  any  effect  at  the  time.  Like 
Mrs.  Jellaby,  they  look  entirely  beyond  their  present 
audience.  Which  of  them  expects  to  influence  the  senti 
ments,  or  the  opinions  or  the  conduct  of  his  hearers,  by 
anything  he  says  ?  Will  a  vote  in  Congress  be  changed 
because  of  the  numberless  harangues  that  are  to  take 
place  on  the  Kansas  question  ?  Votes  out  of  Congress 
may  be  changed  by  them ;  but  how  many  in  it  ?  Good 
speeches  may  be  made  there  ;  but  if  they  are  good  as 
speeches,  it  is  because  the  speaker  is  personally  ambi 
tious  of  oratorical  fame,  because  he  wants  to  be  con 
sidered  a  fine  orator,  not  because  he  expects  to  convert 


Edward  Everett.  215 

his  hearers.  How  different  this  from  the  days  when  a 
man  might  hope  that  his  words  would  incite  a  nation  to 
a  rebellion  or  a  crusade !  These  speeches  may  be  listened 
to,  but  it  will  be  as  an  intellectual  gratification ;  the 
fine  ladies  will  go  to  hear  as  they  would  to  an  opera ;  the 
scholars  will  go  to  criticise,  the  political  friends  and 
foes  to  compliment  or  condemn,  but  how  many  to  decide 
upon  the  point  at  issue  ?  So  the  great  incentive  to 
oratory  is  Avithdrawn ;  if  a  man  feels  that  he  is  talking 
without  the  prospect  of  accomplishing  anything,  if  he  is 
merely  exhibiting  his  own  graces  and  talents,  he  sinks  to 
the  level  of  an  actor,  and  seldom  possesses  half  the  skill  of 
the  actor  in  displaying  his  abilities. 

The  pulpit,  one  may  say,  still  offers  a  field  for  the  ora 
tor,  and  Spurgeon  seems  to  prove  it ;  but  people  follow 
a  popular  preacher  just  as  they  go  to  the  play,  for  an 
excitement.  He  may  add  to  the  number  of  his  hearers, 
but  not  often  to  that  of  his  denomination.  The  pulpit  is 
either  so  soberly  and  staidly  respectable  as  to  be  dull 
besides,  or  else  affords  only  a  momentary  pleasure,  some 
times  intellectual  and  refined,  sometimes  impulsive  and 
emotional.  As  to  any  permanent  effect  it  produces,  I 
confess  I  don't  see  much.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  natural 
disinclination  to  receive  the  distasteful  doctrines  we  hear 
in  church,  and  a  still  greater  to  follow  the  hard  instructions 
we  receive,  which  may  account  for  this  ;  but,  whatever 
the  cause,  very  few  pulpit  orators  expect  to  convert  their 
hearers,  and  those  few  are  disappointed.  The  religious 
people  are  those  who  are  educated  into  their  belief,  or 
who  become  religious  from  study  or  natural  tempera 
ment,  not  those  who  are  preached  into  it. 

The  bar  does  afford  scope  for  the  orator ;  limited  it 


216  The  Vagabond. 

may  be,  but  a  talented  or  skilful  orator  may  hope  to 
change  the  opinions  or  influence  the  verdict  of  the 
twelve  men  in  a  jury-box  ;  upon  his  exertions  does 
depend  the  success  of  his  cause  ;  not  only  mediately 
his  own  reputation,  but  immediately  the  ruin  or  fortune 
of  his  client ;  sometimes  the  life  or  death  of  a  human 
being.  Here  the  opportunity  is  as  great  as  it  was  when 
Cicero  spoke  for  Milo  or  Demosthenes  against  Midias ; 
here  there  is  a  field  for  the  display  of  various  abilities, 
and  occasion  to  call  them  forth ;  here  is  demand  for 
feeling  and  earnestness ;  and  here  by  consequence  we 
find  them.  Intellectual  effort,  of  course,  is  often  exhi 
bited  in  all  the  courts  of  law,  but  only  before  a  jury  can 
the  real  orator  find  himself  at  home. 

It  is  true  that  there  is  an  immense  deal  of  public 
speaking  in  our  day ;  perhaps  more  here  and  now  than 
ever  before  or  anywhere  else ;  but  this  is  because  men 
like  to  hear  fine  things  well  said ;  because  the  love  for 
oratory  is  innate,  like  the  gift  itself;  because  even 
if  any  absolute  effect  is  hopeless,  those  who  can  speak 
must  do  so ;  "  it  is  in  them,"  as  Sheridan  said,  "  and  it 
must  come  out  of  them."  And  the  rest  of  the  world  are 
as  bent  upon  hearing  as  the  orator  upon  speaking.  It  is 
for  the  gratification  of  taste,  or  the  excitement  of  feeling, 
that  we  go  to  hear  a  great  speaker,  and  it  is  because  he  is 
a  great  speaker  that  he  declaims ;  because  he  is  prompted 
to  it  by  his  nature,  because  he  can  do  it,  because  he 
must  do  it ;  but  he  would  do  it  vastly  better,  he  would 
be  more  in  earnest,  and  we  should  be  more  truly 
moved,  if  some  great  thing  were  to  be  achieved  by  his 
efforts. 

But  what  was  to  be  achieved  by  Mr.  Everett  the  other 


Edward  Everett.  217 

night  ?  The  audience  had  paid  their  dollar  apiece,  and 
he  truly  said,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  object  of 
the  occasion  was  attained  before  he  had  spoken  a  word ! 
"What  a  condition  for  an  orator!  But  it  exemplified 
entirely  what  I  have  been  saying ;  it  proved  that  people 
went  to  hear  him  who  is  called  the  greatest  American 
orator,  just  as  they  would  go  to  see  a  great  actor ;  to 
be  gratified  or  interested ;  to  receive  an  intellectual 
entertainment ;  and  that  the  greatest  American  orator 
spoke  simply  because  he  could  speak  well  and  wanted 
to  ;  but  neither  he  nor  they  expected  any  ulterior  results 
to  come  of  his  effort.  Nobody  will  give  a  penny  more 
to  the  poor  because  Mr.  Everett  lectured  on  charity. 
One  would  be  more  likely  to  do  this  after  seeing  the 
"  Poor  of  New  York  "  played.  And  after  hearing  the 
address  on  Washington,  what  then  ?  Or  after  the 
astronomical  oration,  or  that  on  agriculture,  or  that 
delivered  at  Dorchester,  or  that  on  Columbus,  what  fol 
lows  ?  You  are  delighted,  you  retain  a  vivid  recollec 
tion  of  the  grace  of  style  and  the  poetic  fancy,  and  the 
exquisite  diction  of  the  orator ;  but  anything  more  ? 
Mr.  Everett  has  indeed  done  much  for  the  memory  of 
Washington.  He  has  paid  a  splendid  tribute  to  his 
name,  and  revived  the  recollections  of  his  history ;  he 
has  presented  a  spectacle  to  the  eyes  of  the  world  quite 
equal  to  the  classic  triumphs  of  antiquity ;  an  eloquent 
orator  journeying  all  over  this  broad  republic,  and  sum 
moning  the  people  in  every  city  to  pay  homage  to  the 
memory  of  its  father  and  founder,  he  has  laid  on  the 
tomb  of  Washington  his  worthiest  eulogy.  He  has 
secured  that  tomb  to  be  the  property  of  the  nation,  and 
indissolubly  linked  his  own  memory  with  that  of  the  great 

10 


218  The  Vagabond. 

man  he  commemorates.  When  pilgrims  from  all  parts 
of  the  world  shall  hereafter  visit  the  spot  on  the  banks 
of  the  Potomac,  where  repose  the  bones  of  him  whose 
name  and  fame  are  the  purest  in  history,  they  will  fail 
not  to  remember  that  to  the  oratory  and  patriotism  of 
Edward  Everett  they  owe  the  opportunity.  This  is  a 
worthy  object  to  attain ;  but  it  is  not  attained  by  the 
absolute  effect  the  orator  produces  on  his  audiences  ;  as 
far  as  each  audience  is  concerned,  it  is  attained  before 
they  hear  the  oration. 

Mr.  Everett  is  undoubtedly  the  man  of  all  alive  who 
has  made  oratory  his  greatest  study ;  who  is  most  ambi 
tious  of  the  fame  of  an  orator ;  who  risks  his  reputation 
upon  his  oratorical  efforts ;  who  bends  all  his  energies 
and  devotes  all  his  faculties  to  the  attainment  of  such  a 
fame.  And  he  has  determined  that  the  bar,  the  forum, 
and  the  pulpit  furnish  not  the  widest  or  the  most  effec 
tive  theatre  for  oratorical  display ;  that  no  field  for  an 
eloquence  such  as  that  Avhich  roused  the  Athenians  or 
stirred  the  Quirites  now  exists  ;  that  elaborate  and  grace 
ful  orations  are  what  will  ensure  him  the  greatest  fame. 
And  he  is  right.  Some  men  are  more  innately  orators 
than  he ;  move  their  audiences  more  absolutely ;  have 
more  of  the  action  which  constitutes  an  orator;  the  live- 
coal  of  genius  is  laid  on  other  lips,  the  inspiration 
descends  on  other  frames  that  are  quivering  with  emo 
tion,  and  full  of  that  magnetism  which  is  sure  to  extend 
to  the  hearers  ;  but  this  is  all  momentary — it  passes 
away  and  leaves  no  trace  behind ;  while  Mr.  Everett's 
elegant  and  learned  discourses  are  read  next  day,  and 
their  effect  is  as  great  then  as  it  was  the  night  before. 
Nothing  with  him  depends  on  manner.  To  be  sure,  his 


Edward  Everett.  219 

voice,  is  agreeable,  his  gesticulation  graceful,  his  utter 
ance  measured,  his  bearing  dignified,  and  his  action  ap 
propriate  ;  but  he  is  not  dramatic ;  his  elocution  is  not 
overpowering,  his  feeling  not  intense ;  he  is  no  orator  as 
Brutus  was ;  he  is  not  one  of  those  who  steal  men's 
hearts  or  stir  their  blood,  and  yet  he  can  create  an  enthu 
siasm,  he  can  provoke  a  tear.  His  careful  recitation  ol 
the  long  oration  he  has  committed  to  memory,  his  nicely 
elaborated  periods,  his  calm  delivery,  his  finished  style 
constitute  a  different  thing  from  my  idea  of  an  orator,  full 
of  big,  burning  thoughts  that  come  out  in  burning  words, 
with  fire  in  his  eye,  and  fire  in  his  gesture,  and  fire  in  his 
whole  frame  and  fire  in  his  soul.  Who  could  report  such  a 
speaker  ?  Now  Mr.  Everett  loses  nothing  in  the  report. 
He  is  simply  a  most  elegant  writer,  a  master  of  all  the 
rhetorician's  arts,  a  man  of  varied  acquirements,  among 
them  not  the  least  that  of  moulding  into  forms  of  exqui 
site  music, and  suggestive  beauty  the  choicest  words  of 
the  English  tongue.  He  is  a  man  of  charming  fancies, 
of  true,  and  pure  and  lofty  sentiment,  of  vivid  imagina 
tion,  of  refined  taste,  but  especially  gifted  with  a  delicate 
appreciation  of  the  shades  of  difference  in  the  significance 
of  words  and  a  marvellous  faculty  of  selecting  the  very 
word  out  of  eighty  thousand  which  exactly  conveys  his 
meaning.  His  orations  are  as  carefully  joined  together 
as  a  piece  of  mosaic  Avork,  in  which  each  little  stone 
must  be  of  the  very  size  and  color  or  the  effect  is  lost. 
Not  only  in  these  minutiae,  however,  is  his  taste  apparent ; 
the  selection  of  his  themes,  the  division  of  his  subjects, 
their  appropriateness  to  the  audiences  before  whom  they 
are  delivered,  the  fitness  of  his  allusions  and  ornaments 
to  whatever  topic,  the  chaste,  yet  ornate  beauties  of  his 


22O  The  Vagabond. 

style,  all  these  are  evidences  both  of  the  elaborate  care 
with  which  he  has  cultivated  his  natural  gifts,  and  the 
taste  which  must  have  pre-existed  to  enable  him  to  cul 
tivate  to  such  good  eifect. 

He  has,  too,  more  than  beauties  of  style ;  he  has  beau 
ties  of  thought,  beauties  which  constitute  real  eloquence ; 
ideas  as  truly  poetical  as  any  you  will  find  in  the  writings 
of  Spenser,  or  as  exquisitely  delicate  as  the  fancies  of 
Keats;  he  pours  out  at  times  a  torrent  of  charming 
figures,  of  lively  images,  of  true  sentiment  all  combined, 
and  all  wedded  to  the  most  musical  and  most  appropri 
ate  language ;  such  as  I  have  never  heard  any  other  man 
utter,  and  such  as  I  believe  few  living  prose  writers  can 
equal.  In  this  way  is  he  truly  eloquent.  Gentle,  grace 
ful,  sometimes  touching,  his  mind  grapples  not  with 
great  problems,  nor  seizes  upon  vigorous  or  tremendous 
thoughts.  He  is  no  Milton,  no  Dante,  no  Shakespeare 
in  prose ;  but  a  Gray,  a  Petrarch,  or  a  Virgil.  His  in 
tellect  resembles  that  of  Cicero  in  some  things,  but  lacks 
the  profound  philosophical  turn,  the  originality  of  thought, 
and  the  energy  of  the  great  Roman  orator.  Sweet  and 
tender  at  times,  trite  and  tame  it  must  be  owned  at 
others,  neither  uttering  new  ideas  nor  suggesting  them, 
not  attempting  to  arouse  or  excite  his  hearers,  Mr. 
Everett  is  yet  the  finest  and  most  accomplished  writer 
of  eloquence  that  America  has  produced.  Among  the 
speakers,  he  will  not  hold  so  high  a  rank. 


AMERICAN     SCULPTURE. 


"  Your  gallery 
Have  we  passed  through,  not  without  much  content." 

Winter's  Tale. 


SCULPTURE  seems  to  be  that  form  of  art  in  which  the 
American  mind  finds  its  most  natural  development ;  that 
form,  also,  in  which  the  American  mind  most  delights  ; 
the  only  form  of  art  in  which  Europe  recognises  any 
excellence  in  American  eifort.  Whether  there  is  any 
congruity  between  the  nature  of  the  art  and  the  pecu 
liarities  of  our  national  mind ;  whether  there  is  a  like 
ness  between  this  embodiment  in  cold  and  passionless 
marble  of  human  passion  and  human  beauty,  and  the 
unrest,  the  excitement,  the  intensity  of  the  yet  unde 
monstrative  American  character  ;  or  whether  it  is  a  fact 
that  sculpture  is  an  inferior  art,  as  some  proclaim,  that 
it  never  can  attain  to  the  excellencies  of  painting,  that 
it  is  second  to  painting,  as  comedy  is  to  tragedy,  it 
might  be  hard  to  say  ;  but  whatever  the  explanation  may 
be,  it  is  true  that  we  have  taken  onward  steps,  and 
arrived  at  a  degree  of  excellence  in  sculpture,  that  is 
far  enough  from  being  attained  in  painting.  Crawford's 
death  has  made  a  sensation  in  Europe ;  Powers  and 
Grcenough  are  known  and  admired  where  Durand  and 
Allston  were  never  heard  of.  The  art,  too,  is  appreciated 


222  The  Vagabond. 

among  us  by  many  who  are  blind  to  the  harmonies  of 
color  and  the  exquisite  beauties  of  tone.  Form  always 
seems  first  appreciated  in  the  progress  made  by  a  nation 
in  culture.  The  savages  mould  clay  figures  before  they 
attempt  to  paint ;  children  admire  tangible  outlines  be 
fore  they  recognise  the  excellencies  of  color  or  of  light 
and  shade  ;  and  sculpture  has  always  first  attained  per 
fection  in  a  national  histoiy,  or  at  least  has  first  been  culti 
vated.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  old  Greeks  ever 
knew  the  superlative  excellence  that  since  their  day 
has  been  reached  by  painters  ;  the  stories  of  their  pic 
torial  artists,  of  Zeuxis  and  Apelles,  all  give  the  idea 
that  imitation  was  the  great  desideratum.  They  tell 
of  grapes  painted  so  that  birds  would  peck  at  them, 
and  curtains  represented  on  their  canvas  so  that  even 
the  judges  were  deceived,  but  they  had  no  notion  of  a 
higher  excellence.  They  certainly  did  not  conceive  of 
the  expression  we  moderns  have  infused  into  music  ; 
they  dreamed  not  of  harmonic  combinations  of  sounds; 
and  many  have  doubted  whether  the  harmonic  combina 
tion  of  color,  the  art  of  putting  expression  upon  canvas, 
was  not  also  one  of  those  mysteries  that  the  art-loving, 
art-worshipping*  Greek  never  solved.  But  sculpture 
reached  its  efflorescence  in  antiquity. 

The  art  culminated  in  the  days  Avhen  the  Apollo  and 
the  Laocoon  were  carved.  Yet  I  am  far  from  believing 
with  some,  who,  by  their  knowledge  and  appreciation  of 
the  beautiful,  are  well  calculated  to  judge,  that  sculpture 
is  inferior  to  any  art.  It  comes  before  others  in  point 
of  time ;  but  the  sublimest  utterings  of  poetry  always 
precede  the  tamer.  Homer  came  before  Pindar,  Shak- 
epeare  before  Byron,  the  Golden  Age  before  the  Silver ; 


American  Sculpture.  223 

invention  precedes  elaboration ;  eloquence  has  never 
since  the  days  of  Demosthenes  attained  such  an  excel 
lence  or  such  an  influence  as  it  then  knew  ;  but  is  the  art 
inferior  because  it  is  a  lost  one  ?  Shall  we  affect  to  un 
dervalue  the  perfection  of  the  Parthenon  because  it  is 
the  despair  of  modern  builders?  .  The  mere  fact  that 
sculpture  is  the  first  in  any  national  history  to  be  culti 
vated,  does  not  stamp  it  as  inferior  to  painting. 

And  can  it  be  called  inferior  in  beauty  or  expression, 
the  two  objects  of  all  art  ?  To  embody  the  beautiful, 
to  express  feeling,  I  take  it  to  be  the  aim  of  art.  Sculp 
ture  certainly  accomplishes  both  these  aims  by  different 
means,  but  quite  as  fully,  quite  as  admirably,  as  painting. 
Who  that  has  looked  upen  even  a  cast  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere,  will  say  of  any  canvas  that  it  exceeds  the 
marble,  either  in  beauty  or  expression  ?  Who  that  has 
studied  the  Laocoon  will  prefer  a  picture?  I  have  felt 
the  highest  influences  of  art  while  gazing  on  copies  from 
the  antique,  while  studying  the  Torso,  the  Niobe,  the 
Venus,  but  above  and  beyond  anything,  the  Apollo  and 
the  Laocoon ;  no  more  wonderful  embodiments  of  pas 
sion,  no  more  lofty  images  of  beauty  can  I  conceive  of 
than  these.  Color  gives  me  no  more  d.efinite  idea  than 
form  ;  it  certainly  is  no  more  palpable ;  it  is  certainly  no 
more  ideal  than  the  pale,  refined  marble.  Whether  you 
ask  for  wrhat  shall  stand  out  like  an  actuality  before  the 
bodily  eye,  or  whether  you  demand  what  shall  satisfy 
the  imagination  and  elevate  the  fancy  by  its  exquisite 
ideality,  sculpture  will  afford  it. 

So  the  strivings  of  America  in  this  direction  are  no 
evidences  of  inferiority ;  true  she  has  not  yet  created, 
probably  she  never  will  create  another  Apollo ;  we  have 


224  The  Vagabond. 

not  the  belief  in  gods  who  walk  the  earth,  that  the  an 
cients  had,  to  infuse  life  and  divinity  into  our  works. 
When  a  modern  attempts  the  classic  style,  he  may  be 
severe  and  beautiful,  but  he  never  is  so  full  of  fire,  and 
life  and  passion,  as  the  old  sculptors.  The  reason  is  pal 
pable.  The  ancients  believed  in  the  reality  of  these 
divinities  ;  they  got  inspired  by  their  works  :  the  mo 
derns  are  students  only,  not  worshippers  ;  their  fancies 
are  engaged,  their  passions  never.  Just  as  none  but  a 
good  Catholic  could  paint  a  good  Madonna,  none  but  a 
good  Pagan  could  have  given  that  wondrous  life  and 
godlike  beauty  to  the  Belvidere.  The  finest  modern 
marbles  are  the  "  Christ  and  His  Apostles,"  of  Thorwald- 
sen ;  the  reason  is  that  Thorwaldsen's  feelings  and  his 
faith  were  enlisted  in  the  work.  But  Americans  are  no 
worse  off  than  others  when  they  copy  the  antique  ;  the 
rest  of  the  world  has  fallen  away  from  its  belief  in  those 
grand  old  divinities  that  inspired  Homer  and  Phidias ; 
Canova's  Hebe  is  exquisite,  but  it  is  not  Hebe ;  Thor 
waldsen's  classic  bas-reliefs  have  all  the  grace,  all  the 
exquisite  fancy  of  antiquity,  but  none  of  the  soul.  And 
all  modern  statuary  is  copied  after  the  antique ; 
whether  the  subject  be  selected  from  classic  pages  or 
not,  the  style  is  always  remodelled  after  classic  origi 
nals  ;  for  classic  originals  are  perfection. 

But  is,  then,  sculpture  an  art  which  has  seen  its  best 
days?  Lacking  the  vital  breath  breathed  into  it  by  the 
olden  gods,  by  virtue  of  which  it  became  a  living  soul, 
must  our  modern  art  be  only  a  copy,  only  a  shadow, 
only  a  remembrance,  an  echo — a  beautiful  transcript, 
but  still  a  transcript  ? 

American  sculpture  is  as  yet  nothing  more.     Craw- 


American  Sculpture.  225; 

ford,  the  most  classic  of  our  artists,  so  much  adr  lired  at 
Rome,  the  favorite  pupil  of  Thorwaldsen,  he,  whose  loss 
the  nation  now  deplores,  Crawford,  in  his  noblest  efforts, 
created  not.  His  "  Orpheus,"  one  of  the  finest  works  of 
art  ever  executed  by  an  American,  one  of  the  proudest 
trophies  of  modern  statuary,  is  nothing  but  an  imitation 
of  the  antique.  It  is  exquisitely  beautiful,  severely 
classic,  recals  vividly  to  one's  imagination  the  fable  of 
Eurydice,  delights  the  eye,  but  never  has  one  suggestion 
of  anything  more  ;  never  elevates,  arouses,  moves.  And 
bay  what  you  will,  the  calm  sense  of  beauty  is  good, 
the  delight  afforded  by  perfectness  of  sound,  or  form,  or 
color  is  exquisite ;  but  more  even  than  this  is  required. 
Many  critics  call  this  demand  for  something  more  a 
vulgar  want  of  excitement :  but  is  it  not  rather  that 
irrepressible  longing  of  the  human  heart  for  something 
more  than  human  ;  that  reaching  out  after  the  infinite, 
which  whether  it  awakens  to  sympathy  or  stirs  to  exal 
tation,  yet  is  the  noblest  thing  in  man  ;  the  spring  of  his 
noblest  thoughts ;  the  universal  aspiration,  the  craving 
of  the  race.  This  is  not  satisfied  by  Crawford. 

His  "  Beethoven  "  is  massive,  and  grand  and  severe : 
you  cannot  readily  find  fault  with  it,  since  it  fulfils  all 
that  one  requires ;  but  a  great  genius  would  do  more 
than  you  require ;  it  would  suggest  what  never  occurred 
to  the  critic.  If  you  can  measure  every  excellence  of  a 
statue  or  a  poem,  it  is  not  divine :  if  there  is  not  some 
thing  undefinable,  subtle,  yet  overpowering  and  irresisti 
ble  in  its  influence,  or  its  effect,  or  its  beauty,  it  belongs 
not  to  the  first  rank.  No  one  can  say  that  Crawford's 
statue  of  Beethoven  has  such  influences. 

The  works  of  Powers  are  like  Crawford's  in  one  re- 
10* 


226  The  Vagabond. 

spect,  they  are  beautiful ;  but  they  are  not  equal  to  Craw 
ford's,  because  they  have  nothing  but  beauty.  The 
"  Greek  Slave"  is  of  course  exquisite  in  proportion,  and 
full  of  grace  and  softness,  yet  it  lacks  expression  ;  it 
might  be  called  anything  else  as  appropriately  as  a 
Greek  slave.  I  feel  always  in  Mr.  Powers's  works  this 
want ;  in  the  "Proserpine,"  in  the  "Fisher  Boy,"  in  the 
"  Eve  ;"  in  his  most  admired  productions  there  is  need 
of  more  meaning ;  there  are  outlines  and  outsides  ;  re 
presentations,  not  realities ;  beautiful  exceedingly,  but 
spiritless,  all.  Other  American  sculptors  excel  Powers 
in  this  regard :  one  perhaps  excels  even  Crawford  in  this 
single  particular ;  I  mean  Horatio  Greenough. 

I  have  seen  few  American  sculptures  with  so  much 
meaning  compressed  into  the  marble  as  Mr.  Greenough's. 
Those  familiar '  with  his  "  Venus  Victrix,"  now  in  the 
Boston  Athenreum,  will  remember  how  instinct  it  is 
with  expression,  how  limb  and  feature  both  are  full  of 
character,  and  of  beauty  too  ;  not,  indeed,  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  Powers's  works,  nor  the  classic  grace  thrown 
around  Crawford's  productions,  but  still  a  beauty  unde 
niable  and  palpable. 

Brackett's  "  Shipwrecked  Mother  and  Child "  is  also 
very  full  of  meaning;  it  tells  its  own  story;  it  is  modern 
too ;  is  an  indication  that  the  moderns  must  look  to 
their  own  life  for  their  subjects,  must  catch  the  spirit 
of  their  own  times,  if  they  hope  ever  to  rival  the  ancients 
in  this  magnificent  art,  if  they  would  put  "life  into  a 
stone."  The  Palmer  marbles  also  indicate  this  feeling : 
all  of  them  deviate  from  the  classic  model  of  beauty. 
The  "Indian  Girl"  is  of  no  Grecian  type,  is  American 
in  conception  and  idea,  as  well  as  in  execution  ;  is,  if  I 


American  Sculpture.  227 

mistake  not,  the  work  of  one  who  has  studied  in  no 
foreign  workshops,  who  certainly  is  imbued  with  no 
classic  spirit. 

I  love  the  classics,  I  am  sure.  I  can  never  hope  to 
derive  the  satisfaction  from  half-fledged  efforts  in  any 
sphere,  that  absolute  perfection  must  afford  ;  but  my 
only  hope  for  an  American  school  in  art  is,  that  artists 
will  be  American ;  will  live  in  the  present  and  not  in 
the  past.  There  is  enough  now  and  here  to  inspire 
them.  If  they  get  rid  of  traditions  and  shackles,  they 
huve  a  field  before  them ;  and  genius  is  a  gift  that  God 
vouchsafes  in  all  ages  and  climes.  Here  and  there,  one 
may  see  indications  of  it  now. 


WASHINGTON     SOCIETY. 

"  And  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long." 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

ALL  the  world  goes  to  "Washington  just  before  Lent ; 
and  as  vagabonds  follow  the  tide,  whether  it  leads  to 
the  country  or  the  capital,  I  went  with  my  fraternity  to 
Washington.  There  were  all  the  somebodies,  and  very 
many  of  the  nobodies  ;  the  latter  in  large  numbers,  but 
the  former  in  larger.  There  were  breakfast  parties  and 
dinner  parties,  day  receptions  and  evening  receptions, 
matinees  dansantes  and  balls,  suppers  without  women 
and  women  without  suppers ;  indeed,  the  whirl  was  so 
incessant,  that  I  was  at  last  glad  to  get  out  of  it,  and 
rest  from  my  labors.  We  think  in  New  York  that  we 
know  what  gaiety  is,  but  ours  is  tame  by  comparison 
with  the  intensity  of  Washington  dissipation.  We 
have  some  sort  of  a  respite  during  the  day.  If,  at  the 
height  of  the  season,  we  go  to  two,  and  once  in  a  great 
while,  to  three  parties  a  night,  we  lie  late  next  morn 
ing,  and  gather  strength  for  the  next  night's  efforts. 
But  they  never  sleep  in  Washington  ;  tired  nature's 
sweet  restorer  is  not  "  received "  there  ;  no  arrange 
ments  are  made  in  regard  to  her  ;  you  dance  at  a  ball 
till  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  are  expected  to  be 
prompt  at  a  breakfast  with  Congressmen  who  go  to  the 


Washington  Society.  229 

House  at  twelve.  Now,  I  have  paid  visits  here  on  the 
morrow  of  the  Bachelors'  Ball,  or  some  other  recherche 
fete,  and  not  found  the  ladies  "  at  home ;"  the  fatigue 
incapacitated  them  for  receiving;  but  in  Washington 
there  is  a  nightly  occasion,  and  a  round  of  visiting 
besides,  which  allows  you  no  intermission  to  recruit. 
Beranger's  Wandering  Jew  would  find  himself  in  com 
pany : 

"  Toujours,  toujours, 


Tourne  la  terre  ou  moi  je  cours, 
Toujours,  toujours,  toujours,  toujours." 

The  day  receptions  are  pleasant,  however ;  they  are 
not  like  the  matinees  in  New  York,  attended  almost 
exclusively  by  the  beau  sexe;  you  will  find  a  cabinet 
minister  at  home  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  and  see 
half  a  dozen  of  the  most  prominent  statesmen  in  the 
country  flirting  in  the  half-light  of  the  parlors,  or  two 
or  three  well-known  soldiers  hanging  over  some  charmer 
at  the  piano.  Indeed,  the  most  distinctive  feature  of 
Washington  society  is  the  presence  of  men  of  talent  and 
character.  Everybody  knows  and  bewails  how  much 
New  York  society  is  given  up  to  boys  and  girls; 
how  few  distinguished  men  are  to  be  seen  at  our  balls ; 
how  comparatively  lowered  the  tone  of  conversation 
thus  becomes  ;  how  sadly  deficient  the  most  brilliant 
saloons  are  in  brilliant  talkers.  Dancers  we  have  in 
abundance,  and  here  and  there  a  musical  house  can  be 
pointed  oiit ;  but  the  number  of  ladies  who  are  able  to 
gather  around  them  a  circle  of  prominent  or  talented 
men  for  an  evening  can  be  counted  on  your  fingers. 
They  manage  these  things  better  in  Washington.  They 


230  The  Vagabond. 

dance  thei-e  as  much  and  as  Avell  as  we  do  ;  the  people 
who  can  do  nothing  but  dance  are  accommodated ;  the 
Landers'  music  is  heard"  as  regularly  every  night  in  every 
parlor  as  you  enter,  and  as  constantly  till  you  leave,  as 
it  is  here  ;  but  this  is  not  all.  Older  people,  and  people 
who  have  other  than  social  position,  men  who  have 
made  their  mark  in  the  world,  are  to  be  seen  at  all  the 
entertainments ;  are  not  rare  enough  to  be  lions ;  are 
the  rule  rather  than  the  exception.  A  belle  scorns  a 
man  who  has  not  something  to  distinguish  him.  She 
demands  a  name  as  well  as  a  man ;  a  name,  too,  known 
outside  of  a  single  set ;  something  more  than  irreproach 
able  manners,  faultless  toilet  and  divine  dancing ;  some 
thing  more  than  fortune,  or  family,  or  fashion.  She  may 
be  exorbitant,  but  she  asks  for  talent,  and  the  distinction 
which  this  has  brought  its  possessor  ;  no  inglorious  Mil- 
tons,  no  guiltless  Cromwells  will  serve  her  turn;  the  man 
must  have  achieved  some  of  his  greatness  if  he  hopes  to 
make  an  impression  upon  these  exacting  fair  ones.  And 
when  statesmen,  successful  politicians,  generals,  diploma 
tists,  and  men  of  this  stamp  crowd  the  rooms,  it  is  impos 
sible  that  the  entire  tone  of  the  society  they  frequent 
and  compose  should  not  be  affected.  So  there  is  at  once 
dignity  and  ease,  distinction  and  savoirfaire.  The  con 
versation  is  finer,  and  the  society  is  more  cosmopolitan  ; 
there  is  neither  the  provincial  coldness  of  Boston,  nor 
the  hauteur  of  Philadelphia,  nor  the  pretence  of  New 
York  manners.  The  necessities  of  public  life  oblige  the 
leaders  to  be  anything  but  exclusive ;  everybody  is 
admitted,  but  the  influence  is  good,  and  you  see  as  little 
bad  manners  as  in  the  most  select  circle  elsewhere. 
Some  lament  the  facility  with  which  the  entree  to 


Washington  Society.  231 

society  is  obtained.  An  American  Lady  Kew  exclaimed 
to  me  in  horror-stricken  tones,  that  the  daughter  of  one 
of  the  members  of  the  cabinet  had  been  seen  dancing 
with  a  tailor.  She  didn't  know  she  was  telling  this  to  a 
vagabond.  But  it  is  impossible  to  prevent  people  who 
behave  well  from  visiting;  the  officials  must  receive; 
the  President's  levees  are  the  most  accessible  of  all,  and 
everybody  follows  his  lead.  And  I  really  could  not 
perceive  the  ill  effects  of  the  system.  Some  people, 
doubtless,  learn  good  manners  who  have  had  no  previous 
opportunity ;  but  those  who  were  well-bred  before  lose 
nothing  by  the  contact ;  and  you  will  generally  find  that 
those  suddenly  elevated  are  extremely  anxious  to  com 
port  themselves  so  as  not  to  allow  others  to  suspect  that 
their  position  is  a  novel  one. 

One  strange  etiquette  results  from  this  universal 
democracy;  everybody  introduces;  in  every  drawing- 
room  you  will  observe  the  repetition  of  the  everlasting 
formula.  If  you  are  at  a  morning  visit  or  an  evening 
ball,  it  is  supposed  you  want  to  know  every  one  there, 
and  that  every  one  wants  to  know  you ;  and  you  are  to 
remember  the  introduction  and  recognise  the  acquaint 
ance.  Nobody  asks  permission  before  presenting  you 
to  a  lady.  I  was  talking  with  a  belle  when  an  ambassa 
dor  came  up  to  her  and  said :  "  One  of  my  attaches  is 
anxious  to  know  you,  miss  ;"  and  forthwith  trotted  away 
to  bring  up  the  attache.  So  even  the  foreigners  fall  into 
the  fashion,  and  do  as  the  Romans  do,  when  they  are  at 
Rome.  To  be  sure,  this  universality  of  introductions 
has  its  disadvantages ;  the  usage  in  the  best  houses  here 
and  abroad  is  preferable  ;  one  doesn't  want  to  be  forced 
to  know  people,  especially  when  such  a  motley  crowd  is 


232  The  Vagabond. 

"  out "  as  that  at  Washington ;  but  it  has  also  some 
counter  advantages.  It  secures  a  stranger  almost  imme 
diately  the  acquaintance  of  the  entire  Washington  world. 
Every  one  who  is  able  to  procure  an  entree  has  thence 
forth  admission  everywhere  ;  and  so  many  go  to 
Washington  merely  as  transient  visitors,  and  yet  are 
anxious  to  see  its  society,  that  this  custom  is,  on  the 
whole,  agreeable.  It  allows  those  who  are  permanently 
at  the  capital  to  meet  all  the  new-comers,  and  affords 
the  temporary  members  of  the  throng  opportunity  to 
see  all  that  is  to  be  seen. 

The  number  of  disagreeable  men  in  Washington  is 
prodigious.  In  the  first  place,  many  of  the  prominent 
people  are  not  necessarily  pleasant  to  meet,  yet  however 
disagreeable,  must  be  endured;  and  then  there  is  a  per 
fect  tribe  of  insipid  and  ordinary  ones,  who,  I  suppose, 
seem  unusually  uninteresting,  because  of  the  contrast 
with  those  who  are  really  brilliant.  The  men  of  talent 
who  abound  dwarf  the  noodles ;  after  listening  to  the 
conversation  of  the  leader  of  a  party,  or  one  of  the  mas 
ter  intellects  of  the  country,  it  is  extremely  tiresome  to 
return  to  the  nothings  inflicted  on  you  by  some  bore 
W7ho  has  an  office,  or  has  had  one,  or  expects  one.  I 
think  I  never  met  so  many  extremely  stupid,  and  yet 
perfectly  well-bred  men,  as  in  Washington.  To  be  sure, 
that  is  better  than  talent  and  vulgarity :  if  my  associates 
cannot  be  both  talented  and  refined,  give  me  the  refine 
ment  by  all  means ;  this  affects  me,  while  the  talent  is  a 
matter  that  concerns  them  more.  Still,  the  class  of  well- 
bred  idiots  is  distressingly  large  everywhere,  and  causes 
an  immense  deal  of  suffering.  They  would  be  abso 
lutely  intolerable  at  Washington  were  it  not  that  the 


Washington  Society.  233 

brilliant  people  outnumber  them.  Your  chances  are 
really  better  for  meeting  a  clever  person  than  a  fool ! 
Think  of  that,  and  remember  the  mortal  hours  you  have 
endured  in  society  without  encountering  a  single  man 
or  woman  with  brains. 

I  met,  among  other  of  the  clever  folk,  Lady  Sneer- 
well,  Mrs.  Candour,  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite.  Rela 
tions  of  theirs  (the  family  is  a  very  large  one  and  most 
respectably  connected)  visit  in  Xew  York  among  our 
•v  ery  best  people,  but  I  had  not  previously  fallen  in  with 
these  celebrated  individuals  in  person.  They  are  of 
course  extremely  sought  after,  and  from  their  position 
and  fashion,  give  the  tone  to  much  of  the  society.  Con 
sequently  people  are  more  talked  of  even  than  in  New 
York.  (Monstrous  as  this  assertion  seems,  I  am  sure  it 
is  warranted.)  I  relish  gossip  myself,  and  even  a  touch 
of  scandal  doesn't  spice  the  dish  too  highly  for  my  taste, 
though  I  only  indulge  in  this  luxury  in  private ;  but  the 
rage  for  picking  one's  neighbor  to  pieces  is  so  prodi 
gious  at  the  capital,  that  even  the  Vagabond  was  amazed. 
Parties  are  pronounced *ores  before  you  leave  them, 
and  your  character  is  discussed  while  you  are  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.  The  men  are  quite  as  much 
given  to  the  practice  as  the  women ;  they  dissect  their 
dearest  friends  with  as  much  skill  and  alacrity  as  the 
bitterest  female  does  her  bosom  companion ;  I  heard 
just  as  much  ill-natured  talk  at  dinners  and  suppers 
from  which  women  were  excluded,  as  took  place  even  at 
receptions  where  the  Vagabond  was  the  only  man  pre 
sent. 

On  one  of  these  last  mysterious  occasions,  where  I 
was  assisting  to  receive,  there  occurred  the  most  delight- 


234  The  Vagabond. 

ful  circumstance  imaginable  :  a  complete  discussion  of 
three  widow  ladies  who  assume  to  prune  the  visiting 
list  of  an  ambassador  lately  arrived,  and  who  of  course 
is  as  yet  ignorant  of  the  standing  of  many  who  have 
left  cards  at  his  door.  I  strongly  suspected  that  several 
of  the  dear  creatures  who  were  freest  in  their  comments 
upon  the  widows,  were  themselves  excluded  from  the 
ambassador's  balls.  At  any  rate,  they  couldn't  have 
said  anything  more  severe  if  they  had  been.  While 
their  conversation  was  at  its  height,  a  bevy  of  beaux 
arrived,  and  these  were  forthwith  informed  of  the  subject 
of  talk.  They  were  very  anxious  to  know  who  the  wi 
dows  were,  probably  with  a  view  to  paying  their  court ; 
but  Lady  Sneerwell  would  not  tell,  and  Mrs.  Candour 
could  riot ;  the  utmost  they  could  be  induced  to  disclose 
in  identification,  was  that  one  of  the  widows  was  she 
whose  receptions  were  so  universally  popular,  and  who 
had  allowed  a  distinguished  civilian  to  close  her  shutters 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning. 


PRE-RAPHAELITISM. 

"  In  our  fine  arts,  not  imitation,  but  creation,  is  the  aim." 

EMERSC  N. 

AFTER  studying  "  The  Anti-Puseyite  Lady"  and  "  The 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  till  I  thought  myself  fully  aware  of 
their  aim,  and  able  to  appreciate  their  execution,  I  went 
the  other  day  to  Mr.  Bryan's  gallery,  to  compare  the 
real  Pre-Raphaelites  with  their  imitators.  I  was  struck 
immediately,  as  I  had  often  been  before,  not  with  the 
exactness  of  detail,  not  with  the  truthful  attention  to 
exterior  nature,  not  oven  with  the  uncouth  drawing, 
and  stiff,  angular  outlines  of  the  old  artists,  but  with 
the  spirit  that  animated  those  outlines,  and  gave  life  and 
meaning  to  those  details ;  with  the  religious  fervor  of 
Giotto,  and  the  earnestness  of  Cimabue ;  with  the 
simple,  heartful  energy  of  Guido  di  Sienna ;  with  the 
reverent,  pious  feeling  of  them  all.  This  is  in  reality 
what  gives  the  predecessors  of  Raphael  all  their  power, 
this  is  what  makes  them  now,  after  the  lapse  of  centuries, 
acknowledged  as  true  artists.  This  is  what  the  modern 
Pre-Raphaelites  profess  to  aim  at ;  this  is  all  that  makes 
the  theory  of  the  new  school  anything  more  than  realism  ; 
this  is  what  the  practice  of  the  new  school  fails  to 
attain. 

Its  disciples  rival  their  models  in  the  careful  delinea- 


236  The   Vagabond. 

tion  of  trivialities ;  they  will  paint  you  the  back  of  a 
chair  that  shall  be  carved  as  finely  as  the  work  of  Al- 
brecht  Dtirer,  or  the  elaborate  embossment  in  the  pictures 
of  Giottino ;  they  will  mark  every  sheep  in  a  pen  with 
his  brand,  and  dot  the  earth  everywhere  that  a  sunbeam 
flickers  through  the  leaves ;  they  will  count  the  hairs  like 
Denner,  and  mark  each  shred  of  grass  like  Valkenburgh  ; 
but  they  have  not  the  motive  that  the  old  painters  had. 
Their  art  is  not  religious.  No  modern  art  is  I'eligious. 
People  paint  no  pictures  for  cathedrals,  they  carve  no 
images  of  saints  which  they  afterwards  adore ;  or  if  a  man 
happens  to  work  on  an  altar-piece,  he  looks  not  upon  the 
purpose  as  sanctifying  the  labor.  The  spirit  that  ani 
mated  the  real  Pre-Raphaelites  does  not  exist ;  it  is  dead 
and  buried,  and  even  the  eloquent  conjurations  of  a  Rus- 
kin  can  evoke  nothing  but  its  ghost. 

The  disciples  of  the  Oxford  graduate  are  then  realists; 
the  doctrine  of  the  Oxford  graduate,  if  it  lose  this  only 
savor  wherewith  it  should  be  salted,  is  realism ;  and 
though  its  apostle  claims  for  Pre-Raphaelitism  that  it 
possesses  the  saving  savor,  it  is  only  a  claim,  and  one 
which  neither  the  doctrine  nor  its  results  can  establish. 
The  theory  that  truth  is  in  art  of  more  importance  than 
beauty  is  not  correct ;  the  notion  that  beauty  should  be 
sacrificed  to  truth — harsh,  bare,  repelling  truth,  is  itself 
at  once  unlovely  and  untrue ;  the  teaching  that  nature 
is  always,  and  under  all  circumstances,  to  be  scrupulously 
copied  is  false.  Nature  is  often  unlovely,  and  its  effects 
disagreeable ;  truth  to  nature,  under  such  circumstances, 
is  falsehood  to  art ;  and  though  eloquence,  and  sophistry, 
and  rhetoric  be  employed,  with  all  the  splendid  talent  of 
one  of  the  greatest  masters  of  English  prose,  they  can- 


Pre-Raphaelitism.  237 

not  upset  the  notions  that  mankind  has  held  for  centuries. 
What,  indeed,  in  any  art,  would  you  do  with  plain,  bare 
nature?  Would  you  have  the  sculptor  carve  out  the 
grossnesses  and  imperfections  of  the  human  form  ?  Would 
you  have  him  represent  the  moles  and  pimples,  the  coarse 
flesh  and  the  dirt  of  the  "Fisher  Boy,"  or  the  "  Torso  ?" 
would  you  have  the  poet  put  the  foul  and  common  lan 
guage  of  the  stews  or  the  market  into  the  mouth  of  his 
Dogberries  and  Pistols  ?  Would  you  have  a  comic 
actor  represent  all  the  odious  vulgarities,  the  revolting 
indecencies  of  low  life  ?  This  is  not  art :  art,  whose  aim 
is  to  elevate,  not  to  debase,  to  ennoble  and  refine,  not  to 
belittle  and  render  coarse  ;  whose  object  is  the  beautiful ; 
the  true,  certainly,  but  not  all  that  is  true ;  truth  in  ex 
pression,  but  not  in  the  expression  of  what  is  mean  and 
common  ;  truth  in  the  representation  of  nature  and  cha 
racter,  but  not  nature  that  is  disgusting,  nor  character 
that  is  ordinary.  If  you  paint  me  tin  pans  and  carpets, 
you  may  do  it  well ;  but  you  are  not  an  artist  for  all 
that.  If  we  want  nothing  more  of  painters  than  abso 
lute  representations  of  old  buildings,  or  copies  of  oak 
trees  and  fern  leaves,  Pre-Raphaelitism  is  very  well ;  but 
if  artists  are  to  awake  emotions,  to  excite  sentiments,  to 
arouse  feeling,  then  Pre-Raphaelitism  is  not  well. 

For  there  is  a  higher  truth  than  that  of  detail,  there 
is  a  higher  truth  than  that  which  is  apparent  in  confor 
mity  to  oytsides,  which  consists  in  daguerreotyping  or 
mirroring  external  objects  ;  there  is  a  truth  of  sentiment, 
a  truth  of  feeling.  The  artist  must  catch  this  higher 
truth,  must  put  meaning  into  his  brooks  and  trees,  ex 
pression  into  his  forms  and  features,  must  infuse  a  spirit 
or  a  thought  into  his  work ;  else  it  is  but  sounding  brass 


238  The  Vagabond. 

and  tinkling  cymbal.  If  the  life  is  more  than  meat  or 
the  body  than  raiment,  then  is  the  thought  of  man  worth 
more  than  its  dress ;  then  is  the  ideal  loftier  than  the 
real.  It  is  all  very  well  to  ridicule  the  notion  of  improv 
ing  upon  nature,  to  laugh  at  the  presumption  of  those 
who  you  say  attempt  it ;  but  will  you  accept  coarse, 
ordinary  nature,  or  look  you  for  that  nature  not  to  be 
found  every  day  nor  everywhere  ?  Will  you  have  nature 
in  which  a  divinity  is  incarnate,  or  nature  like  that  of 
the  brutes  that  perish  ?  If  a  man  in  search  of  common 
truths  fail  to  notice  higher  ones,  he  is  as  far  out  of  the 
way  as  he  who  sees  none  at  all.  Would  you  be  blind  to 
the  light  of  the  stars,  and  see  only  sticks,  and  clods,  and 
stones  ? 

This  fault  I  find  with  the  Pre-Raphaelite  brethren — 
that  their  doctrine  leads  directly  to  a  worship  of  the 
material ;  to  an  ignoring  of  the  ideal ;  to  putting  out- 
sides  and  externals  on  an  equality  with  the  essential  and 
superior.  This  one  would  say  after  studying  the  doc 
trine  in  the  expositions  made  by  its  chief  and  self- 
appointed  advocate.  He  who  should  read  Mr.  Ruskin's 
"  Modern  Painters,"  with  the  subsequent  pamphlet  and 
lecture  on  Pre-Raphaelitism,  must  come  to  the  conclu 
sion,  without  seeing  the  pictures,  that  all  this  tends  to 
realism.  To  be  sure,  there  are  denials  of  the  tendency ; 
there  are  contradictions  innumerable  ;  there  are  deifica 
tions  of  invention,  and  hymns  to  imagination ;  but  for 
all  this,  the  only  logical  deductions  from  the  reasoning 
are  in  favor  of  realism. 

And  if  this  is  the  notion  you  get  from  the  eloquent 
defence  of  the  school,  how  firmly  is  it  fixed  by  the  sight 
of  the  works  themselves.  What  do  you  see  in  all  these 


Pre-Raphaelitism.  239 

careful  pictures  but  the  most  marvellous  accuracy,  the 
greatest  degree  of  mechanical  skill,  the  most  remarka 
ble  imitation,  the  most  painstaking  assiduity,  the  same 
traits  that  enable  a  man  to  weave  a  Brussels  carpet,  or 
an  old  woman  to  put  together  a  patchwork  bed-quilt  ? 
Do  you  call  painting  a  tree,  in  which  every  leaf  is 
marked  out,  art  ?  Do  you  call  the  delineation  of  every 
figure  in  a  tapestry,  of  every  blade  of  grass  in  a  meadow, 
art  ?  What  end  is  attained  by  this  ?  What  sentiment 
d^es  such  a  picture  inspire?  What  emotion  does  it 
awake  ?  What  beauty  does  it  present  to  the  soul  ? 
You  may  look  at  these  elaborate  photographs  all  day, 
and  get  no  ennobling  feeling  from  them.  There  is  a 
certain  excellence  in  their  correct  copying ;  but,  again 
and  again,  imitation  is  not  art.  This  will  do  for  those 
who  can  accomplish  nothing  more ;  but  it  goes  so  far 
and  no  farther.  The  men  without  genius  may  give 
themselves  up  to  it  if  they  will,  but  when  the  real  magi 
cian  comes  along,  we  shall  all  cry  out,  with  the  old 
Egyptians  :  "  This  is  the  finger  of  God." 

I  see  few  excellencies  in  the  Pre-Raphaelites  peculiar 
to  themselves ;  while  their  faults  are  all  their  own.  They 
overlook  great  things  in  search  of  small ;  they  are  really 
untrue  to  nature,  for  all  their  hue  and  cry  about  truth : 
their  perspective  is  untrue.  No  human  being  distin 
guishes  distant  objects  with  the  same  degree  of  accu 
racy  as  near  ones;  no  human  being  could  perceive 
leaves  and  flowers  at  the  distance  represented  in  many 
of  these  pictures.  Then,  many  of  them,  in  aiming  at 
certain  traits  of  the  older  artists,  have  caught  faults  and 
mannerisms  instead  of  excellences.  They  all  fail  in  em 
bodying  that  religious  feeling  which  Ruskin  says  truly 


240  The  Vagabond. 

is  the  great  distinguishing  characteristic  of  Giotto  and 
his  contemporaries;  they,  many  of  them,  imitate  the 
bad  drawing,  the  angular  outlines,  the  harsh,  stiff  atti 
tudes,  the  uncouth  appearance  of  the  old  pictures ;  and 
they  lack  tone  always  and  altogether ;  while  their  merits 
are  such  as  all  the  world  shares.  When  a  Pre-Raphael 
ite  is  a  man  of  genius,  in  so  much  as  he  exhibits  that 
genius,  he  deviates  from  the  strict  rules  of  his  school. 
When  he  does  anything  great,  he  ceases  to  be  peculiar ; 
he  does  what  other  great  artists  have  done  before.  For 
instance,  the  expression  of  the  "  Ophelia"  of  Hughes  is 
very  sad  and  sweet ;  the  vacant  look,  the  mournful  atti 
tude,  and  the  entire  sentiment  of  the  picture  are  admi 
rably  expressive,  or  indicative,  rather,  of  the  character 
and  fate  of  the  fair  Ophelia ;  but  these  characteristics 
the  picture  would  possess  if  Pre-Raphaelitism  had  never 
been  heard  of.  The  truly  admirable  things  in  Madox 
Brown's  "  Lear,"  are  the  attitude  of  the  crazed  old  king, 
the  straw  stuck  into  his  grey  locks,  and  the  drawing  of 
his  weary  limbs ;  but  what  of  these  did  the  artist  owe 
to  Pre-Raphaelitism  ?  Here  he  had  to  resort  to  imagi 
nation  ;  here  he  did — not  what  Mr.  Ruskin  so  often  in 
sists  the  artist  should  do,  represent  what  he  saw ;  not 
what  did  exist,  but  what  he  imagined  ought  to  exist. 
In  "The  Light  of  the  World,"  Pre-Raphaelitism  dic 
tated  the  flowers  so  elaborately  drawn  and  colored,  the 
curious  workmanship  of  the  Saviour's  robes,  and  the 
general  quaintness  of  treatment ;  but  not  the  expression 
of  the  Christ,  not  the  sentiment  of  the  picture,  not  the 
really  beautiful  traits  of  the  work. 

I  leave  to  the  ardent  admirers  of  the  new  school,  the 
"  Monarch  Oak,"  a  fair  sample  of  its  monstrosities,  the 


Pre-Raphaelitism.  241 

"  Two  and  a  Half  Years  Old,"  and  the  "  Home  from 
Sea."  Whoever  can  admire  such  pictures  as  these  is  too 
far  gone  for  me  to  argue  with  ;  whoever  believes  them, 
as  I  do,  to  be  legitimate  results  from  the  teaching  of  the 
school,  will  either  receive  that  teaching  implicitly,  or 
else  reject  entirely  that  which  puts  flowers  and  humanity 
in  the  same  scale ;  that  which  appreciates  a  stick  as 
highly  as  a  soul,  and  lavishes  as  much  labor  on  the  por 
traiture  of  a  pan  as  Da  Vinci  would  have  bestowed  on 
the  "Last  Supper,"  or  Raphael  on  a  picture  of  the 
Fornarina. 


MRS.   KEMBLE. 

"  In  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirlwind  of  your 
passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temperance  that  may  give  it 
smoothness." — Hamlet. 

I  KNOW  of  no  one  who  has  acquired  and  begot  this 
temperance  of  which  Hamlet  speaks,  in  the  same  degree 
with  Mrs.  Kemble  ;  I  know  of  nothing  that  more  exactly 
describes  the  style  and  school  of  elocution  in  which  she 
excels,  than  this  advice  to  the  players.  The  Kembles 
all  believed  that  dignity  and  grace  and  taste  could  be 
combined  with  the  expression  of  the  intensest  feeling ; 
they  all  acted  upon  this  belief.  They  never  relinquished 
their  stately  demeanor  for  effectiveness  ;  they  never  sacri 
ficed  their  elegance  to  rant ;  they  were  well-bred  when 
they  raged,  and  measured  when  they  wept.  And  their 
representative  is  faithful  to  the  traditions  of  her  race. 
She  too  preserves  the  music  of  intonation  in  the  most 
tremendous  outbursts  of  passion,  and  forgets  not  her 
art  when  her  genius  is  most  apparent.  For  it  was  the 
peculiarity  of  this  extraordinary  family,  that  its  mem 
bers  combined  great  art  with  undoubted  genius  ;  they 
were  not  of  the  cold,  unimpassioned  sort  who  elaborate 
sounding  declamation  without  feeling  it;  who  portray 
and  copy  life,  but  are  not  themselves  alive  ;  they  infused 
meaning  and  expression  into  their  eloquent  tones  and 


Mrs.  Kemble.  243 

graceful  attitudes  ;  their  t  iste  added  a  crowning  orna 
ment  to  their  feeling,  but  interfered  not  with  its  utter 
ance  or  embodiment.  Mrs.  Kemble  is  a  true  Kemble 
in  this ;  it  is  impossible  to  hear  and  see  her  without  ap 
preciating  at  once  her  exquisite  skill  and  her  magnetic 
influence. 

"Yet  with  her,  as  it  was  with  the  other  Kembles,  art  is 
supreme  ;  if  the  two  come  in  collision,  nature  must  give 
way.  I  like  nearly  as  well  as  its  most  devoted  admirers, 
tLe  style  of  this  school ;  I  believe  that  grace  and  dignity 
can  be,  combined  with  passion  and  feeling ;  I  delight  in 
the  music  of  elocution,  and  am  gratified  by  the  stately 
walk  and  dignified  postures  of  these  commanding  forms. 
I  appreciate,  I  think,  the  cadences  of  poetry,  and  do 
not  call  Shakspeare  less  true  to  nature  when  he  writes 
in  blank  verse  than  in  prose  ;  for  there  is  a  higher  than 
an  every-day  nature  that  answers  back  to  these  exalted 
influences.  It  is  this  nature  in  us  that  admires  the  ideal 
in  art ;  that  frowns  on  materialism ;  that  is  affected  by 
tne  truthfulness  of  Lear  and  Raphael,  by  the  music  of 
Mozart  and  the  readings  of  Mrs.  Kemble.  Though  these 
geniuses  do  not  represent  human  nature  in  her  coarsest 
or  commonest  garb,  though  they  lift  us  up  for  a  time 
into  a  higher  sphere,  we  feel  that  they  do  not  trans 
gress  the  promptings  of  nature,  that  they  are  truthful, 
that  they  are  natural,  as  well  as  impressive  and  effective. 

Yet  John  Kemble  was  supreme  till  Kean  came,  and 
then  the  sceptre  departed  from  Judah.  You  could  ima 
gine  nothing  finer  than  Kemble's  Hamlet,  till  you  had 
felt  the  influence  of  Kean's  Richard  or  Othello  ;  and 
exalting  and  refining  as  are  the  readings  of  Mrs.  Kem 
ble,  I  like  her  better  as  a  reader  than  as  an  actress.  I 


244  The  Vagabond. 

mean  that  her  intellectual  powers  are  greater  than  her 
dramatic  ones ;  I  mean  that  when  she  reads  something 
like  Clarence's  dream,  which  cannot  be  acted,  she  is 
inimitable,  but  that  I  have  known  others  move  me  more 
in  the  rendei'ing  of  Richard  in  the  tent  scene  of  the 
same  play.  You  feel  no  lack  if  you  have  not  seen  or 
heard  these  others  who  are  transcendent ;  but  if  you 
have,  the  Kembles  pale  their  uneffectual  fires. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  reading  ;  one  elocutionary  and 
the  other  dramatic.  In  the  former,  Mrs.  Kemble  is 
absolutely  unapproachable  ;  in  the  latter,  she  probably 
excels  any  one  else,  but  she  becomes  so  much  of  an 
actress  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  contrast  her  with 
other  actors  who,  in  their  turn,  excel  her.  Of  course,  it 
is  unfair  to  make  the  comparison  ;  for  in  the  reading  of 
an  entire  play,  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  become  so 
completely  identified  with  a  single  part  as  in  acting  it. 
Doubtless,  Mrs.  Kemble  could  give  every  passage  with 
greater  effectiveness  and  intensity  were  she  playing  tho 
role;  but  it  belongs  to  her  style  to  stop  short  of  the  ab 
solute  abandonment  of  passion ;  she  maintains  the  tem 
perance  and  smoothness  in  the  very  whirlwind  ;  she  never 
loses  her  self-control  when  her  excitement  is  at  the  high 
est  pitch ;  she  never  becomes  absolutely  the  individual 
whom  she  represents.  Now,  I  believe  that  perfection 
in  the  histrionic  art  is  not  reached  until  the  performer 
thinks  and  feels,  for  the  time,  that  he  is  Richard  or  Des- 
demona ;  till  he  ceases  to  imitate,  and  feels  instead  of 
feigns  ;  till  he  no  more  restrains  himself  than  a  man  in 
a  real  passion  does :  yet  if  he  be  a  genius,  this  abandon 
ment,  absolute  as  it  is,  shall  still  be  lofty  and  magnificent 
as  well  as  effective. 


Mrs.  Kemble.  245 

I  repeat  it  is  unfair  to  compare  Mrs.  Kemble's  read 
ing  with  another's  acting;  but  it  is  the  highest  compli 
ment  I  can  pay  her.  Without  the  adventitious  aids  of 
dress  and  scenery,  she  is  able  to  bring  up  the  various 
individuals  of  the  play  nearly  as  vividly  as  a  stage  full  of 
performers.  You  see  and  hear  Othello  and  lago,  Richard 
and  Lady  Anne,  Prospero  and  Ariel.  You  cannot  avoid 
criticising  her  as  an  actress ;  for  she  possesses  the  mar 
vellous  faculty  of  expression  in  face  and  form,  that  is  as 
necessary  to  an  actress  as  intellect  or  voice,  and  contri 
butes  as  much  to  success  as  either.  She  has  also  the 
power  which  the  very  greatest  geniuses  of  the  stage  pos 
sess,  not  only  of  enchaining  the  attention,  but  compelling 
an  unconscious  imitation  of  her  looks  in  those  of  her  hear 
ers.  I  have  at  times  caught  myself  responding  to  her 
expression  or  copying  with  my  own  features  the  varying 
emotions  depicted  on  her  mobile  countenance. 

Then  I  knew  that  I  had  been  not  only  absorbed  but 
forced  into  a  state  of  subjection  to  her  genius ;  and 
looking  around  I  saw  the  entire  audience  also  subject. 
When  she  expressed  anger,  they  looked  angry ;  when 
she  portrayed  fear,  they  looked  fearful.  They  were  en 
rapport  with  her ;  she  swayed  them  at  her  will,  as  the  skil 
ful  magnetizer  does  his  patient.  This  is  a  power  that  the 
very  greatest  histrionic  geniuses,  and  only  the  greatest, 
wield.  Rachel,  Grisi,  and  young  Booth  exert  it ;  and  its 
possession  alone  stamps  Mrs.  Kemble  a  woman  of  genius. 

Then  how  wonderfully  her  face  expresses  passion !  how 
radiant  it  becomes  with  that  highest  beauty,  of  soul ! 
The  features,  which  in  repose  are  too  massive  and  heavy 
to  be  absolutely  beautiful,  then  assume  a  life  and  spirit 
that  transcend  all  other  beauty.  You  wonder  not  at 


246  The  Vagabond. 

Othello's  love  when  she  looks  Desdemona;  you  can  par 
don  Desdemona's  infatuation  when  she  beams  out  the  pas 
sion  of  the  Moor.  I  think  the  most  magnificent  intensity 
of  expression  I  ever  saw  in  her,  was  that  which  accom 
panied  the  death  of  Desdemona — the  awful  attitude  of 
Othello  as  he  held  the  smothered  victim  down,  and  the 
black  frown  that  indicated  he  was  a  murderer.  This  fol 
lowed  so  instantly  on  the  last  shriek  of  Desdemona  that 
the  scene  was  brought  as  vividly  before  the  imagination 
as  on  the  stage.  I  have  never  seen  an  Othello  or  a 
Desdemona  equal  it. 

This  reminds  me  of  what  is  the  most  remarkable  thing 
connected  with  these  readings.  I  mean  the  versatility 
of  feeling  which  enables  Mrs.  Kemble  to  throw  herself 
so  instantly  from  one  character  into  another ;  to  share 
alike  the  fear  of  Desdemona  and  the  determination  of 
Othello  ;  the  scorn  of  Gloster  and  the  hate  of  Margaret 
of  Anjou.  This  compensates  for  the  occasional  lack  of 
intensity — is,  indeed,  incompatible  with  it.  It  affords 
the  listener  a  more  continued  gratification,  a  more  even 
one  than  he  can  ever  have  in  a  theatre ;  for  no  play  can 
ever  be  so  well  rendered  throughout  as  Mrs.  Kemble 
reads  it.  We  are  bored  by  no  miserable  creatures  in 
the  subordinate  parts  ;  she  is  sure  to  be  well  supported ; 
she  reads  every  line  exquisitely;  and  as  Shakspeare 
is  so  crammed  with  meaning,  and  wit  and  poetry,  'tis 
doubly  delightful  to  have  every  shade  of  expression  so 
fitly  rendered. 

This  versatility  makes  her  comic  readings  to  the  full  as 
great  a  pleasure  as  her  tragic  ones ;  she  gives  the  drunken 
scene  of  Cassio  delightfully;  she  renders  the  jibes  of  the 
young  Duke  of  York,  the  childish,  pettish  tones  of  the  boy, 


Mrs.  Kemble.  247 

quite  as  well  as  the  deep  mutterings  of  his  hunchback 
uncle.  Indeed  I  think  her  more  delightful  still  in  comedy 
than  in  tragedy ;  the  intensity  there  is  not  needed  ;  and 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  anything  more  exquisite 
than  her  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  All  the  delight 
ful  poetry  is  poetically  read  :  the  humor  of  Bottom  and 
the  malice  of  Puck,  the  grace  of  Titania,  are  made  reali 
ties  to  the  imagination  and  to  the  ear,  if  not  to  the  eye ; 
indeed,  more  palpable  to  the  sight,  as  they  are  expressed 
on  her  changing  features,  more  real  than  if  they  were 
portrayed  by  people  of  ordinary  talent,  who  would  only 
disenchant  you  when  they  essayed  to  deceive. 

In  passages  indicative  of  tenderness,  of  love,  of  deep 
but  not  harsh  feeling,  the  wealth  of  passion  lavished 
by  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  manly  ardor  of  Othello, 
the  touching  address  of  Wolsey  to  Cromwell,  and  the 
death  scene  of  Katherine  of  Arragon,  she  is  as  admi 
rable  as  can  be  desired.  In  Henry  VIII.,  of  course,  she 
reminds  one  of  Miss  Cushman,  and  seems  to  me  to  possess 
more  feeling.  Miss  Cushman's  taste  and  intellect  are 
quite  as  remarkable  as  those  of  Mrs.  Kemble ;  but  the 
Englishwoman  is  more  of  a  woman.  She  can  be  touching, 
she  can  move  to  tears,  when  the  other  would  only  pro 
voke  to  admiration.  Her  forte  is  not  so  much  the 
terrible  and  harsh  emotions,  not  the  awful  fright  of 
Richard  or  the  hurry  of  the  battle  scene,  not  the  intense 
malignity  of  lago  or  the  bursts  of  rage  in  Lear ;  she 
does  not  occasion  these  shocks  of  strange  delight  that 
some  actors  cause,  but  in  the  rendering  of  familiar  or 
tender  passion,  in  graceful  comedy,  in  tasteful  poetry, 
in  versatility,  and  in  the  general  pleasure  she  affords, 
Mrs.  Kemble  must  stand  unrivalled.  I  can  imagine  no 


248  The  Vagabond. 

more  intellectual  gratification  than  her  reading,  no  finer 
lesson  to  the  taste ;  and  if  at  times  I  fancy  that  I  might 
experience  a  more  acute  sensation  than  she  excites,  I 
certainly  can  seldom  know  a  more  refined  or  loftier 
pleasure. 


AMERICAN     BELLES. 

"  Examine  other  beauties." 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

I  HAVE  been  jilted  of  late ;  so  it'  I  write  snappishly  or 
spitefully,  my  readers  are  forewarned,  and  can  take  their 
granum  salts.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  write  with  feeling. 
You  will  think  so,  for  I  had  intended  to  say  my  say 
about  an  opera  to-day,  and  had  even  written  the  title 
at  the  top  of  my  page ;  but  the  uppermost  emotion 
would  have  its  way ;  so  I  scratched  out  "  The  Hugue 
nots,"  and  set  down  instead  "American  Belles." 

Emerson  says  in  one  of  his  essays :  "A  beautiful  woman 
is  a  picture  wThich  drives  all  beholders  nobly  mad."  I 
have  seen  several  beautiful  women,  and  consequently, 
according  to  Emerson,  been  driven  mad  several  times. 
Xow  when  one  gets  sane  after  his  noble  madness,  or 
Avhen  one  thinks  he  is  sane  (for  they  say  the  taint  of 
lunacy  is  never  removed,  and  after  a  while  the  old 
disease  is  sure  to  return  with  redoubled  virulence),  his 
experience  is  useful  to  the  doctors.  He  may  serve  as  a 
warning,  to  point  out  to  others  how  they  shall  escape 
his  fate.  His  treatment,  too,  may  teach  what  regimen 
is  to  be  avoided  and  what  to  be  essayed.  Pelican-like, 
then,  picking  my  own  breast  to  feed  the  curiosity  of  my 
readers ;  poet-like,  drawing  from  my  own  feelings  to 
11* 


250  The  Vagabond. 

make  my  strain  more  truthful,  I  begin.     Musa  !  mihi 
causas  memora  ! 

American  belles !  belles  like  Beatrice,  so  queenly,  and 
tall,  and  elegant  and  fascinating ;  belles  like  Norah, 
with  dark,  flashing  eyes,  and  merry  laugh,  and  shrewd 
sense  and  keen  wit ;  belles  like  Cornelia,  sumptuous, 
and  superb  and  lazy ;  belles  like  Kitty,  dashing,  and 
racy,  and  brilliant  and  coquettish  ;  belles  like  them  all — 
inclined  to  flirt,  inclined  to  be  fast.  The  characteristics 
I  first  mentioned  are  such  as  any  woman  may  share  ; 
are  not  peculiar  to  Americans.  French  women  are  gay, 
English  women  are  voluptuously  formed,  Spanish  women 
are  bewitching  and  Italian  women  are  brilliant ;  but 
if  American  belles  can  be  distinguished,  as  a  class,  by 
any  traits  peculiarly  their  own,  it  is  by  their  love  of 
flirtation  and  of  frolic.  Other  belles,  when  they  play 
with  men  at  the  dangerous  game  of  love,  play  in 
earnest ;  their  passions  get  involved  instantly ;  they 
cannot  touch  the  edged  tools  without  cutting  them 
selves  ;  and  therefore  other  women  are  more  closely, 
and  scrupulously  and  wisely  guarded  than  ours.  But 
an  American  girl  can  touch  the  brink  of  all  we  love 
without  falling  over  ;  can  engage  in  a  desperate  flirta 
tion  without  feeling  one  spark  of  passion,  and  without 
eliciting  one  in  her  partner.  Is  this  because  she  is  inca 
pable,  or  cold  ?  I  recollect  reading  some  French  book 
that  treated  of  American  society,  and  nothing  surprised 
the  foreigner  like  this  facility  of  flirtation ;  the  very 
word  as  well  as  the  theory  was  unknown  to  him.  There 
is  no  equivalent  for  it  in  that  language,  which  has  a 
word  for  every  shade  of  feeling,  for  every  idea  of  society, 
for  every  pha.se  of  thought.  So  my  Frenchman  adopted 


American  Belles.  251 

our  phrase,  and  spelt  itfleurtecheunej  but  a  fleurtecheune 
is  not  flirtation.  No  Frenchwoman  coiild  realize  even 
from  the  vivid  description  of  her  countryman  the  possi. 
Lility  of  such  a  delightful  state  of  affairs  as  exists  here. 

For  it  certainly  is  delightful.  You  have  all  the  plea 
sure  of  love  ;  all  the  piquant,  interesting  charm  of  la 
belle  passion,  without  any  of  the  painful  intensity.  A 
man  and  woman  may  like  each  other  well  enough  to 
spend  many  a  pleasant  hour  together  ;  may  even  prefer 
each  other  to  any  one  else  they  have  met ;  may  be  good 
friends — ay,  they  may  even  be  and  do  all  this,  and  be 
young  besides,  and  yet  not  be  plunged  into  that  horrible 
gulf  of  love,  which  has  no  pleasure,  only  a  painful  one. 
At  least,  this  is  possible  in  America.  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
I  know,  foolish  creatures !  could  not  see  each  other 
without  going  madly  to  work  and  loving ;  but  two 
young  Americans  in  their  position,  meeting  at  a  ball, 
would  have  been  content  with  a  flirtation.  They  would 
have  said,  perhaps,  as  pretty  things  as  Miss  Capulet 
and  Mr.  Montague  did  at  the  masquerade,  but  they 
would  have  stopped  short  of  the  hand-kissing ;  they 
would  only  have  talked  of  it.  And  can  any  one  imagine 
an  American  belle  standing  on  her  balcony  after  a  party, 
and  ranting  about  a  beau  who  had  just  been  introduced 
to  her,  as  Juliet  did  about  Romeo  ?  Can  any  one  ima 
gine  a  member  of  the  Union  Club  clambering  over  into 
the  back  yard  of  a  family  with  whom  his  own  was  not 
on  speaking  terms,  and  eavesdropping  while  the  belle 
apostrophized  him  in  rhapsodic  strains?  How  much 
more  sensible  for  these  young  people,  who  are  just  as 
handsome  and  agreeable  as  the  Veronese  couple,  to  dance 
"The  Lanciers,"  and  promenade  the  avenue  (not  arm 


252  The  Vagabond. 

in  arm),  to  visit  and  be  visited  at  the  opera,  to  go  out 
with  a  chaperone  or  without,  according  as  mamma  is 
rigid  or  not — how  much  more  sensible  than  to  take  poi 
son,  and  go  down  into  vaults,  to  visit  friars'  cells,  to 
fling  themselves  on  the  earth,  to  die  for  each  other,  and 
all  that.  My  modern  pair,  after  a  few  months'  very  vio 
lent  flirtation,  after  dancing  indefatigably  together  an 
entire  season,  after  being  seen  in  public  invariably  at  the 
same  time  and  place,  after  exciting  some  little  talk  among 
their  set,  suddenly  subside ;  and,  though  they  are  good 
friends  thereafter,  neither  suffers  from  the  subsidence. 
The  young  man  devotes  himself  more  attentively  to  busi 
ness,  or  to  some  other  charmer,  of  another  style ;  the 
belle  accepts  the  richest  or  the  most  distinguished  of  her 
admirers,  and  there  is  a  great  wedding,  a  matinee  dan- 
sante,  to  which  Mr.  Montague  will  certainly  be  invited. 
The  trouble  is  that  a  belle  must  carry  on  several  flirta 
tions  at  once.  Every  young  lady  in  society  finds  at  least 
a  single  admirer  ;  but  the  popular  one,  the  particularly 
rich,  the  particularly  beautiful,  the  particularly  fascinat 
ing  one  has  a  host,  each  waiting  to  take  his  turn.  This  is 
probably  very  agreeable  to  her,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  distaste 
ful  to  the  worshippers:  I  myself  never  enjoy  a  ball  or  a 
party  while  I  am  in  love,  for  I  am  a  man  of  taste,  and 
always  fall  in  love  with  belles ;  I  can't  expect  to  mono 
polize  the  attention  of  a  brilliant  girl  during  an  entire 
evening,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  her  dancing  with  a  bet 
ter-looking  man  than  myself.  I  vastly  prefer  a  morning 
visit,  when  nobody  else  is  likely  to  come  in,  and  I  never 
choose  reception  days.  I  think  a  box  at  the  opera  infi 
nitely  better  than  a  soiree,  even  if  I  am  the  escort.  But 
the  skilful  manner  in  which  a  professed  belle  plays  off 


American  Belles.  253 

her  different  attendants;  the  tact  with  which  she  will 
distribute  a  smile  to  one,  a  look  to  another,  and  a  word 
to  a  third,  each  fancying  that  nobody  else  gets  such  a 
look,  such  a  smile,  so  soft  a  glance,  so  low  a  tone — this 
is  amazingly  interesting  when  you  are  only  a  looker-on. 
The  belle  does  not  intend  to  be  coquettish ;  she  really 
likes  all  the  fellows,  but  for  different  reasons ;  one  is  so 
handsome,  another  so  good-natured,  another  so  clever ; 
Tom  sends  her  such  bouquets,  and  Ned  is  an  old  friend 
of  the  family,  while  Mr.  Montague  is  so  much  admired 
by  all  the  girls,  and  especially  by  Rosalind,  that  she 
must  keep  him  at  her  shrine.  Thus  she  has  a  reason  for 
being  civil,  ay,  more  than  civil,  to  each ;  besides,  they 
all  like  her,  they  all  are  her  friends,  and  she  can't  be  so 
ungrateful  as  to  wound  their  feelings  ;  so  she  keeps  them 
dangling. 

American  girls  are  very  good-natured,  you  see.  They 
all  have  good  hearts,  though  not  very  warm  ones;  they 
would  not  do  much  for  a  friend ;  you  couldn't  expect 
them  to  make  a  great  exertion  or  a  great  sacrifice  in 
your  behalf,  but  they  appreciate  what  you  do  for  them  ; 
they  wouldn't  stop  a  bit  of  scandal  about  an  acquaint 
ance,  but  they  wouldn't  set  one  in  motion.  There  are 
hateful,  malicious  ones,  who  possess  the  dangerous  gift 
of  wit,  and  spit  out  spiteful  words  in  your  face ;  who 
say  things  that  make  a  man  feel  very  unpleasant,  and 
which  he  can't  resent  because  they  are  said  by  a  woman ; 
but  these  are  few.  Most  girls  are  not  brilliant  enough 
to  say  such  things  ;  their  wit  is  only  sportive ;  and  most 
of  them  would  not  willingly  give  pain  ;  they  may -some 
times  quiz  you  to  your  face,  and  boast  of  it  afterwards, 
but  not  often  ;  they  may  laugh  at  a  man's  peculiarities 


254  The  Vagabond. 

and  foibles  when  he  is  away,  but  that  is  fair ;  the  men 
talk  up  the  women  as  well — I  can  vouch  for  it;  we  know 
all  your  weak  points,  darlings ;  don't  flatter  yourselves, 
that  you  escape.  Sometimes,  after  you  have  been  snuffing 
up  the  incense  of  adoration  for  a  whole  evening,  t\vo  or 
three  of  your  admirers  will  go  home  together,  and  as 
they  stop  to  take  a  cigar,  or  a  supper,  after  a  starvation 
party,  say  how  badly  you  were  dressed,  or  how  awkward 
you  moved  in  "  The  Landers  ;"  they  don't  admire  your 
singing,  or  you  are  pretty,  but  you  know  it  too  well. 

All  the  belles  are  fast ;  married  or  single,  in  their  first 
winter,  or  almost  passee,  the  beauties  and  the  wits,  all 
the  women  who  make  a  sensation  in  society  are  pronon- 
cee  ;  perhaps  only  a  little  so,  but  they  must  be  distin 
guished  from  the  rest  to  be  belles ;  they  must  dare  do 
things  that  the  others  will  not  do ;  they  must  have  more 
manner,  more  confidence,  very  likely  more  cleverness, 
but  all  this  makes  them  rather  fast.  Perhaps  I  do  not 
choose  my  word  with  sufficient  care  ;  perhaps  there  is 
none  that  exactly  expresses  what  I  mean.  But  is  it  not 
true  that  those  who  are  most  admired,  who  are  most 
invited,  who  are  never  neglected  at  a  ball,  and  always 
have  a  crowd  around  them  at  the  opera,  are  those  who 
flirt  most,  who  talk  most,  who  laugh  most,  who  go  out 
most,  who  accept  most  attentions,  who  are  called  by  the 
men,  not  only  brilliant,  but  fast. 

The  greatest  southern  belle  whom  I  have  known  was 
a  woman  of  large  fortune,  and  used — as  all  belles  are 
not — from  her  earliest  years,  to  the  highest  companies. 
She  had  been  abroad,  spoke  several  languages,  danced 
divinely,  and  was  rather  good-looking,  when  well  dressed. 
But  she  lived  at  a  hotel,  and  told  me  of  changing  the 


American  Belles.  255 

gentlemen's  boots  at  night,  as  they  stood  at  their  doors 
to  be  cleaned ;  she  told  me  of  wearing  men's  clothes ; 
she  went  to  the  Jardin  Mabille  in  Paris— I  have  her 
description  of  the  scene  now  in  a  letter  before  me  ;  she 
said,  the  severest  and  rudest  things  to  people ;  in  fact, 
she  said  some  to  me.  Yet  this  lady  has  a  position  that 
none  can  gainsay,  and  never  was  seen  without  a  train  of 
admirers. 

The  western  belles  talk  loud,  laugh  loud,  walk  fast,  go 
everywhere,  do  everything,  without  being  immodest  or 
vulgar;  they  are  decidedly  piquant  in  their  daring,  like 
Di  Vernon  or  Lady  Gay  Spanker,  and  sure  always 
to  make  an  impression.  I  remember  seeing  the  daughter 
of  a  United  States  senator,  for  a  wager,  order  a  drink  at 
the  bar  of  the  Astor  House;  and  she  tossed  it  off 
bravely  too. 

The  New  York  belles  are  by  no  means  of  this  sort ; 
are  undoubtedly  well-bred,  can  be  dignified  when  they 
choose ;  but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  American  character 
may  be  seen  in  their  manners,  subdued  in  a  degree  by 
elegant  associations ;  still,  they  lack  repose.  They  like 
Verdi's  music,  and  prefer  the  "  Trovatore"  to  "  The 
Huguenots  ;"  they  think  "  Stride  la  Vampa"  superb, 
but  the  romanza  of  Raoul  tame. 


CARL  FORMES. 

"Either  for  tragedy,  comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastoral-comical, 
historical-pastoral."  Hamlet. 

HOWEVER  much  one  may  dislike  to  own  it,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  opera  is  rapidly  supplanting  the 
drama  in  the  estimation  of  the  cultivated  part  of  man 
kind.  As  long  ago  as  Voltaire's  time,  indications  of  this 
state  of  affairs  were  perceived  by  that  astute  observer, 
who  declared  that  "  the  most  sublime  tragedy  and  the 
most  artful  comedy  are  not  so  frequently  revisited  by  the 
same  person  as  an  indifferent  opera."  A  critical  judg 
ment  must  indeed  always  place  the  intellectual  merits  of 
the  drama  above  the  effeminate  charm  of  the  opera ; 
and  for  myself,  much  as  I  enjoy  the  delights  afforded  by 
music,  I  reckon  the  highest  pleasures  of  the  theatre 
superior,  simply  as  pleasures.  There  is,  after  all,  nothing 
but  sense  and  passion  gratified  by  music,  but  in  the 
theatre  intellect  also  is  called  in  play ;  and,  if  you  lose 
the  exquisite  raptures  that  tickle  your  ear,  at  least  as 
intense  an  emotion  is  excited,  one  that  compensates  for  the 
lack  of  sensual  titillation.  Still,  the  highest  dramatic 
sort  of  entertainment  is  very  rare,  and  ordinary  theatri 
cal  performances  cannot  be  compared  with  second-rate 
operatic  amusements.  I  had  rather  hear  Labocetta 
than  see  Miss  Logan  ;  I  had  rather  hear  an  indifferent 
opera  than  see  an  indifferent  play :  I  can  get  some  plea- 


Carl  Formes.  257 

sure  out  of  the  one,  while  the  other  is  an  unmitigated 
bore.  The  great  world  agrees  with  me  and  Voltaire ; 
it  frequents  the  Academy  in  crowds,  and  straggles  in 
only  occasionally  to  the  finest  performances  at  the  theatre. 
As  a  result  of  this,  great  artists  will  prefer  the  operatic 
stage :  one  would  rather  be  appreciated  by  those  best 
qualified  to  judge ;  one  would  rather  display  his  talents 
before  the  most  distinguished  audiences ;  and,  unless  the 
actor  can  compel  crowds  to  follow  him  like  those  that 
attend  Ristori  or  Rachel,  he  must  do  as  Formes  does,  and 
sing ;  that  is,  if,  like  Formes,  he  happens  to  possess  a  mag 
nificent  voice.  For  the  great  basso  was  intended  by 
nature  for  an  actor  rather  than  a  singer ;  his  musical 
abilities  are  uncommonly  fine,  but  they  are  quite  thrown 
into  the  shade  by  his  dramatic  ones ;  he  himself  enjoys 
acting  more  than  singing,  and  we  go  away  from  his 
performances  thinking  much  more  of  what  we  have  seen 
than  of  what  we  have  heard,  superb  as  the  last  may  have 
been.  In  fact,  there  are  times  when  his  acting  is  so 
excellent  that  it  absolutely  interferes  with  your  apprecia 
tion  of  the  music ;  it  distracts  your  attention  ;  you  are 
watching  the  comic  face  of  Basilio  when  you  should  be 
listening  to  the  notes  of  "La  Calunnia;''  you  are  laugh 
ing  at  Leporello  when  you  should  be  enjoying  the  song 
of  his  master.  However,  if  Formes  had  been  merely  an 
actor,  he  would  have  delighted  smaller  audiences ;  he 
would  have  been  a  German  actor,  and  appeared  only  in 
German  theatres,  and  mostly  before  the  middling  class 
of  people  ;  whereas,  by  leaping  on  the  operatic  stage,  he 
secures  every  nation  for  hearers,  and  accomplished 
people  all  over  the  world  for  admirers.  He  does  not, 
however,  fail  to  affect  all  sorts  of  people.  My  barber  is 


258  The  Vagabond. 

in  raptures  with  him  as  well  as  my  minister ;  I  have 
heard  them  both  praise  him,  though  one  heard  him  in 
"  Martha  "  and  the  other  in  "  The  Messiah." 

Things  have  changed  since  Addison's  day ;  the  sneer 
ing  tone  in  which  he  wrote  of  Nicolini,  the  he-singer, 
is  not  that  in  which  the  critics  have  discussed  Carl 
Formes.  The  genius  and  the  art  of  this  last  comer  have 
done  much  to  elevate  the  consideration  and  position  of 
operatic  artists.  No  person  of  sense  or  taste  can  see 
the  great  basso  and  not  acknowledge  him  to  be  a  man 
of  more  than  ordinary  abilities ;  and  not  acknowledge 
that  he  is  in  exactly  the  sphere  for  which  nature  intended 
him ;  can  possibly  rank  him  with  the  singers  in  the 
pope's  chapel,  or  the  Nicolinis  who  used  to  scramble  on 
the  stage  with  lions.  If  then  it  is  apparent  that  all  these 
gifts  could  not  have  been  lavished  on  a  man  for  naught, 
if  he  is  possessed  of  gifts  that  can  be  exercised  in  no 
other  way  than  on  the  operatic  stage,  if  he  does  exercise 
them  there  in  the  most  splendid  manner,  who  shall 
deride  or  despise  him  or  his  calling  ?  You  may  laugh  at 
some  of  the  drunken  or  foppish  tenors  who  spend  their 
lives  in  squabbling  and  squalling;  but  don't  confound 
true  artists  Avith  fools  who  happen  to  possess  a  voice. 
Voice  and  genius  are  very  distinct  qualities:  I  enjoy  the 
gratification  one  affords  me,  but  I  reverence  the  other. 
I  see  no  reason  why  a  genius  for  the  stage  should  be 
denied  the  personal  appreciation  which  it  sometimes 
covets  more  than  the  applause  of  theatres.  If  a  man  is 
a  gentleman,  or  a  true  man,  his  being  an  actor  is  no  more 
against  him  than  his  being  a  pork-merchant  surely.  And 
yet,  fools  rush  in  where  angels  would — get  the  door  shut 
in  their  faces. 


Carl  Formes.  259 

When  I  first  heard  Formes  sing  the  incantation  music 
of  "  Robert  le  Diable,"  and  saw  him  compel  Alice  to 
descend  from  her  post  at  the  foot  of  the  cross ;  when  I 
first  listened  and  looked  while  he  pleaded  with  Robert  in 
the  grand  trio  of  the  same  opera,  and  with  all  a  father's 
earnestness,  and  all  a  demon's  intensity,  besought  the 
son ;  when  I  heard  his  suspiration  of  gratified  hate  at 
overcoming  the  Norman  peasant ;  when  I  watched  his 
attitudes  so  full  of  meaning  and  passion,  his  looks  so 
intent  and  devilish,  his  hands  so  expressive  in  their  play, 
his  stride,  the  sweep  of  his  robes,  the  very  toss  of  his 
hair,  and  the  instinctive,  nervous  twitchings  of  his  limbs, 
I  recognised  the  true  dramatic  nature.  More  than  this, 
however ;  Formes  has  a  nature  that  seeks  expression  not 
only  in  form  and  face,  but  in  song  as  well :  though  with 
him,  song  is  but  one  part  of  a  stupendous  whole.  His 
voice,  so  rich,  so  full,  so  melodious  (when  true),  so 
sweet,  but  above  all  so  sympathetic,  is  fitly  joined  to 
such  abilities  as  he  possesses.  It  is  natural  for  him  to- 
sing ;  he  sings  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings ;  you  do  not 
perceive  the  absurdity  of  opera  \vhile  you  listen  to  his 
notes  ;  you  are  not  amazed  that  Bertram  calls  the  guilty 
nuns  to  earth  by  means  of  song,  or  that  Plunket  tells 
his  love  to  Nancy  in  involuted  strains.  He  so  feels  the 
music  that  he  makes  his  audience  feel  it  too.  He  takes 
you  up  along  with  him  into  the  region  where  all  these 
things  are  possible  and  probable ;  where  demons  cry  to 
their  sons  in  heart-rending  ti'ios,  and  valets  shudder  in 
terrific  tones ;  where  Mozart  and  Meyerbeer  lived  when 
they  composed,  where  great  artists  live  when  they  em 
body  great  ideas,  where  you  and  I  must  follow  these 
geniuses  if  we  would  appreciate  their  efforts.  Formes 


260  The  Vagabond. 

catches  us  all  up  into  this  region  ;  he  wakes  an  en 
nobling  fire  in  the  dullest  listener ;  he  sends  an  emotion 
to  the  coldest  looker-on.  It  is  this  magnetic  influence 
which  we  feel,  which  he  feels,  which  is  exerted  by  glance 
and  tone  and  action,  that  constitutes  his  power.  He 
does  not  possess  it  in  the  same  degree  as  some  that  I  have 
watched ;  he  is  not  the  greatest  of  actors,  but  he  is  yet 
truly  great ;  he  does  not  so  completely  absorb  as  to 
make  you  utterly  indifferent  to  everything  and  every 
body  else  on  or  off  the  stage ;  but  he  compels  your 
attention,  and  he  is  sure  to  repay  it. 

His  versatility  is,  perhaps,  more  wonderful  than  his 
electric  influence.  His  tragic  powers  are  great,  as  who 
can  doubt  that  has  seen  his  attitudes  and  action  in  the 
third  act  of  "  Robert,"  or  his  painfully  life-like  represen 
tation  of  terror  in  the  finale  of  "  Don  Giovanni  ?"  But 
his  comic  abilities  are  still  finer.  He  enters  into  fun  with 
a  greater  zest  even  than  that  which  he  bestows  upon  the 
loftier  parts.  I  was  in  the  coulisses  on  the  night  of  his 
debut,  and  saw  him  stalk  loftily  alone,  while  waiting  for 
his  cue,  evidently  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  Bertram, 
looking  and  feeling  devilish  enough ;  but  I  have  also, 
from  the  stage  boxes,  seen  him  brimful  of  the  most  exu 
berant  fun  in  the  entr'actes  of  a  comic  opera;  while 
that  he  fully  appreciates  the  mirth  of  Plunket  or  Le- 
porello  none  will  doubt  who  have  seen  "Martha"  or  "Don 
Giovanni."  He  seems  boiling  over  with  nonsense.  He 
convulses  the  house,  and  is  himself  convulsed ;  he  is  as 
droll  as  Hudibras  and  as  comic  as  Gabriel  Ravel,  and 
alas!  occasionally  coarse.  I  have  seen  him  guilty  of 
vulgar  humor ;  the  gobbling  up  of  the  maccaroni  in 
"Don  Giovanni,"  though  it  is  traditional,  is  disgust- 


Carl  Formes.  261 

ing,  and  entirely  unworthy  a  great  artist  like  Carl 
Formes. 

I  have  called  him  an  artist ;  and  he  is  an  artist  as  well 
as  a  genius.  He  omits  no  detail  of  dress  or  manner ; 
he  never  forgets  his  role,  he  never  remembers  himself ; 
he  is  completely  absorbed  bodily  and  mentally  in  his 
part.  It  is  not  Formes,  but  Georgio  in  "  I  Puritani,"  or 
Rocco  in  "  Fidelio,"  that  you  see.  Every  motion,  every 
look  is  in  character.  His  by-play  is  quite  as  effective  as  his 
great  points ;  indeed,  he  makes  but  few  startling  points ; 
it  is  the  uniform  excellence  of  his  acting  that  delights 
you.  He  never  excites  those  shocks  of  emotion,  whether 
comic  or  tragic,  that  the  very  greatest  geniuses  alone 
can  cause,  but  he  always  gratifies  you ;  if  he  reaches  not 
the  absolute  superlative,  his  comparative  merits  will  suf 
fer  by  juxtaposition  with  those  of  very  few. 

His  excellence  is,  however,  not  only  perceptible  in  the 
careful  attention  to  what  another  would  consider  trivia 
lities,  not  only  in  the  painstaking  appreciation  of  details, 
not  only  in  producing  quiet  touches,  but  in  the  large  con 
ception  he  takes  of  a  part,  in  the  admirable  manner  in 
which  he  seizes  hold  of  the  thought  of  the  composer. 
He  enters  into  the  very  spirit  of  the  music,  whether  it 
is  buffo  or  serious.  He  makes  Leporello  not  a  mere 
vulgar  buffoon,  but  a  man  of  the  world  although  a  valet ; 
a  shrewd,  vain,  cowardly,  affectionate,  even  reverential 
fellow.  He  discovers  traits  in  the  music  of  the  role  that 
no  one  else  had  detected  before ;  he  elevates  the  charac 
ter  into  the  region  of  high  comedy,  and  at  last  finds 
out  how  to  harmonize  this  light,  ridiculous  creature  with 
some  of  the  grandest  music  of  Mozart.  He  feels  how 
unfit  were  the  chatterings  and  grinnings  of  former  Le- 


262  The  Vagabond. 

porellos  for  the  sublime  finale  of  "  Don  Giovanni,''  and 
substitutes  for  them  a  representation  of  terror  that  I 
do  not  scruple  to  say  enhances  the  effect  even  of  Mo 
zart's  music ;  that  is  in  admirable  keeping  with  the  spirit 
this  would  awaken ;  that  is  at  once  profound  in  concep 
tion  and  nearly  unequalled  in  the  representation. 

I  have  persisted  in  considering  the  musical  abilities  of 
Formes  as  entirely  secondary  to  his  dramatic  ones.  I 
enjoy  his  singing  as  much  as  that  of  any  basso  who  has 
preceded  him  in  America ;  the  superiority  of  his  voice 
being  especially  apparent  in  the  Libertad  duo  of  "I 
Puritani,"  where  its  fluent  sweetness  as  a  basso  can- 
tante,  its  sympathetic  tones  and  its  flexibility  are  most 
remarkable ;  in  the  concluding  trio  of  Robert,  where 
its  passionate  intensity  seems  to  culminate,  and  in  the 
third  act  of  the  same  opera,  where  it  assumes  entirely 
the  character  of  a  basso  profundo,  and  surpasses  any 
other  ever  heard  here,  in  compass,  if  not  in  volume;  but 
his  singing  is  sometimes  forgotten  for  his  acting ;  it  is 
entirely  subordinate  to  the  grand  effect ;  it  is  not,  in  fact, 
so  perfect  as  his  acting,  for  he  sometimes  sings  false ;  but 
he  never  acts  false. 


RACHEL. 

"  n  faut  done  quitter  tout." 

SHE  who  so  often  simulated  death,  has  succumbed  to 
the  reality ;  she  who  studied  the  workings  of  poison  in 
the  hospitals  of  Paris,  and  portrayed  them  with  such 
terrible  life -liken  ess,  has  passed  through  an  agony  fiercer 
than  she  had  feigned ;  she  who  was  wont  to  cry  with 
such  harrowing  accents,  in  the  last  act  of  "  Adrienne," 
"  Je  suis  si  jeune,  et  la  vie  s'ouvre  pour  moi  si  belle  !  " 
has  exclaimed  in  bitter  earnest  as  she  looked  at  her 
jewels  and  her  sumptuous  robes :  "  II  faut  done  quitter 
tout !  "  Yes,  all ;  all  the  triumphs,  all  the  fascinations 
of  the  theatre;  the  crowded  audiences,  the  reverberating 
plaudits,  the  gorgeous  garments,  the  homage  paid  by 
kings  and  poets,  the  jewels  oifered  by  emperors  and 
cities,  the  glory  of  being  to  her  own  people  the  inter 
preter  of  their  greatest  poetry,  and  to  the  rest  of  man 
kind  the  truest  embodiment  of  those  classic  fictions 
which  have  delighted  the  world  for  thirty  centuries. 
All  she  had  to  leave.  One  can  hardly  realize  that  the 
form  so  instinct  with  expression,  that  towered  in  hate 
in  "  Les  Horaces"  and  writhed  in  agony  in  "  Adrienne," 
that  was  all  alive  with  love  and  horror  conflicting  in 
"  Phedre,"  and  transformed  with  a  radiance  never  seen 
on  any  other  uninspired  form,  in  "  Polyeucte,"  that  this 


264  The  Vagabond. 

should  be  still  and  stiff  for  ever ;  that  the  eye  which 
burned  with  the  intensest  and  guiltiest  ardors,  or  with 
ered  with  scorn,  or  flashed  with  hate,  should  be  finally 
closed;  that  the  voice,  which  rang  clear  and  loud,  or 
was  convulsed  with  emotion,  that  was  the  very  music 
of  declamation,  or  the  absolute  incarnation  in  sound  of 
rage  and  horror,  should  be  for  ever  stifled.  To  be  sure, 
as  Gertrude  says,  in  "  Hamlet : "  "  All  that  live  must 
die."  The  change  is  common,  but  how  much  more 
startling  when  it  falls  upon  one  whom  we  have  only 
seen  in  the  intensest  life,  crowned  with  the  most  daz 
zling  gifts  ever  vouchsafed  to  humanity,  receiving  in 
the  most  actual  and  present  manner  the  applause  of  her 
contemporaries !  Nothing  strikes  more  forcibly  than 
the  contrast  between  Rachel,  as  I  last  saw  her,  in  "  Phe- 
dre,"  stammering  out  her  guilty  passion  to  the  Amazon's 
child,  crying  "j'aime  "  with  a  meaning  that  no  one  else 
could  put  into  those  two  words,  and  looking  "j'aime" 
with  a  meaning  greater  still,  and  Rachel,  broken-hearted, 
dying,  struggling  to  resist  the  irresistible  enemy,  recall 
ing  her  triumphs,  and  demanding  once  more  to  see  the 
jewels  she  had  received  and  the  royal  attire  she  had  worn 
— and  then  crying  out  in  the  bitterness  of  her  soul :  "  II 
faut  done  quitter  tout !" 

The  secret  of  the  fascination  of  the  theatre  for  minds 
of  a  certain  class,  minds  imaginative  and  yet  not 
wholly  so,  minds  which  like  to  see  their  imaginings 
embodied,  and  which  sometimes  fling  an  imaginary 
grace  around  the  actual,  which  live  in  the  real  world 
but  elevate  it  into  the  ideal,  is,  that  great  acting  makes 
real  for  them  their  ideal ;  it  presents  to  the  perceptions 
of  eye  and  ear  what  had  before  only  lived  in  the  cliam- 


Rachel.  205 

bers  of  the  brain.  Of  course,  this  is  the  mission  of  all 
art ;  this  incarnation  of  the  imagination  is  what  elevates 
and  refines  in  painting  and  statuary  and  architecture. 
Poetry  is  purely  and  simply  imaginative;  it  calls  up 
only  to  the  soul's  sense  the  creations  of  the  poet's 
fancy ;  it  is  dreamy  and  abstract :  but  other  and  realer 
art  makes  alive,  brings  out  of  the  womb  of  the  mind ; 
not  only  conceives,  but  brings  forth,  through  much 
tribulation,  a  living  thing — a  thing  of  beauty ;  and  as  a 
man,  who  unborn  is  soulless,  but  once  brought  into  the 
world  is  alive  for  an  eternity,  so  this  thing  of  beauty 
once  embodied,  is  a  joy  for  ever.  It  not  only  vivifies 
the  conceptions  of  the  artist,  but  realizes  the  ideas  of 
the  rest  of  the  world ;  those  unformed,  floating  notions 
of  the  beautiful  we  all  have,  are  shown  by  it  not  to  be 
mere  fancies,  to  be  capable  of  expression,  of  utterance, 
of  form,  of  life. 

Now,  no  art  is  so  actual  as  that  of  the  stage ;  the 
actor  does  not  represent  a  man,  he  is  one ;  he  does  not 
so  much  feign  passion  as  he  really  feels.  As  the  human 
voice  is  the  sweetest  and  most  expressive  of  instru. 
ments,  as  the  human  form  is  the  noblest,  and  the  human 
face  the  most  beautiful  and  pliable  of  materials,  so  he 
who  works  with  such  material  has  an  advantage  over 
his  brother  artists  who  labor  in  colder  clay  and  less  liv 
ing  colors,  or  struggle  with  rougher  and  more  intractable 
instruments.  The  sculptor  leaves  you  to  imagine  life 
and  color,  the  painter  can  only  make  you  fancy  form 
and  substance,  the  musician  represents  words  ;  all  their 
arts  are  more  intangible,  more  elusive,  more  ideal  per 
haps  than  that  of  the  great  artists  of  the  stage ;  the 
actors  may  be  no  greater,  but  they  are  more  perfect  in 

12 


266  The  Vagabond. 

this  one  thing — in  the  complete  expression  and  elimina 
tion  of  their  idea.  No  statue  ever  equalled  the  grace 
and  dignity  of  one  of  Rachel's  attitudes,  and  she 
changed  them  every  moment;  no  painting  ever  por 
trayed  half  the  intensity  of  her  looks,  and  they  came  in 
such  rapid  succession  that  the  beholder  was  fatigued  to 
follow.  So  the  stage,  of  course  only  in  its  most  exalted 
representatives,  possesses  advantages  that  no  other  art 
can  claim.  Who  could  possibly  paint  a  Phedre  like  that 
we  have  seen  ?  Who  can  carve  a  Camille  like  that  we 
shall  never  see  again  ? 

For  if  the  stage  possesses  this  power  of  realizing 
the  creatures  of  the  imagination  as  no  other  art  does, 
Rachel,  of  all  actors,  was  the  one  who  possessed  the 
greatest  share  of  this  power.  She  not  only  realized  a 
grace,  a  beauty,  a  dignity  such  as  we  had  never  before 
seen  with  our  bodily  eyes,  but  such  as  few  of  us  had 
dreamed  of  in  our  most  exalted  rhapsodies.  She  pre 
sented  to  us  loftier  ideas  than  many  had  imagined  from 
reading  the  poet's  page  ;  she  soared  even  beyond  the 
dramatist  himself;  what  was  Racine's  Phedre,  com 
pared  with  hers?  What  was  the  Camille  of  "Les  Ho 
races"  by  the  side  of  the  magnificent  creation  of  the 
actress  ?  I  think  I  shall  never  tire  of  the  theatre  for 
this  reason ;  I  would  rather  have  my  fancies  fully  em 
bodied,  than  floating  half-shapen  through  my  brain.  I 
may  not  be  so  ethereal  or  so  completely  ideal  in  the 
character  of  my  mind  as  those  who  are  content  with 
their  own  imaginings ;  but  when  I  can  contemplate 
incarnate  even  a  degree  of  Hamlet's  solemn  melan 
choly,  of  Macbeth's  fright,  or. the  terrific  grace  of  Phe 
dre,  it  affects  me  more  than  the  gloating  over  my  own 


Rachel.  267 

notions  alone.  I  leave  altogether  out  of  consideration 
the  sympathetic  influence  possessed  by  some  geniuses, 
and  which,  I  confess,  affects  me  more  even  than  their 
art.  But  this  Rachel  did  not  possess ;  with  her,  it  was 
the  perfection  of  art  you  contemplated. 

She  had  a  complete  appreciation  of  the  character 
suggested  by  the  poet ;  she  entered  absolutely  into  the 
sentiment  of  antiquity ;  she  was  imbued  with  the  classic 
influence,  and  she  possessed  a  wonderful  intellect  as  well 
as  all  the  mechanical  or  material  gifts  of  a  great  actor  ; 
that  is,  a  voice,  a  form  and  a  face  capable  of  any  de 
gree  of  expression,  either  in  the  lightest  shade,  or  the 
greatest  intensity.  And  she  knew  perfectly  how  and 
when  to  use  her  tools ;  but  she  did  not  possess  the 
electric  feeling  which  acts  so  strangely  upon  actor  and 
audience.  She  struck  you  with  awe  or  horror,  but  she 
felt  none  herself;  she  moved  you,  but  it  was  in  spite  of 
yourself.  Her  exertions  were  wonderful,  and  their  re 
sults  prodigious  ;  but  she  was  not  of  those  upon  whom 
the  inspiration  descends  ;  she  rather  worked  herself  up. 
I  could  often  tell  when  she  was  about  to  make  a  point 
by  the  preparation  of  her  limbs,  like  the  crouch  of  a 
basilisk  before  its  spring.  When  I  saw  the  shivering,  I 
knew  she  was  about  to  move  me,  but  I  could  not  sit  un 
moved  for  all  that  knowledge.  Her  influence  was  akin 
to  that  of  a  sorceress;  you  saw  the  means  by  which  she 
produced  the  charm,  at  least  you  knew  them ;  you  saw 
her  prepare  to  cast  the  spell  about  you,  and  yet  could 
not  resist.  You  were  as  completely  in  her  power,  as  if 
you  had  fallen  in  unawares.  This  of  course  is  a  proof 
of  the  greatness  of  her  art,  but  it  proves,  too,  that  the 
Inspiration  of  the  moment  did  nothing  for  her.  You 


268  The  Vagabond. 

never  wondered  how  Grisi  moved  you  ;  you  never  knew ; 
she  never  knew  herself;  the  moment  came  and  with  it 
the  inspiration.  The  one  was  absorbed  in  the  play,  and 
felt  all  the  wrath  of  ISTorma  or  remorse  of  La  Favorita ;  the 
other  knew  all  the  time  that  she  was  Rachel,  the  Jewess, 
and  that  you  were  only  the  puppet  to  be  worked  upon. 

This  everlasting  coldness,  this  superhuman  calm,  this 
almost  divine  serenity,  while  all  around  were  shudder 
ing  with  awe,  or  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
excitement,  provoked  the  auditor.  One  does  not  like 
to  feel  at  the  mere  beck  of  another  ;  to  be  dissected 
and  subjected  to  a  galvanic  battery ;  you  want  to  feel 
from  sympathy  ;  because  another  is  moved,  you  would 
be  moved  also.  Then  you  care  not  how  deep  the  emotion. 

But  your  admiration  and  interest  were  compelled  in 
your  own  despite  by  Rachel.  From  the  first  instant 
that  she  was  upon  the  stage  your  attention  was  riveted 
and  concentrated  upon  her  ;  it  was  impossible  to  look  at 
anything  else.  She  first  attracted  by  the  inimitable 
grace  and  dignity  of  her  attitudes,  and  when  the  spell 
was  potent,  defied  you  to  resist  the  fascination  or  re 
move  your  eyes.  For  with  her,  as  with  other  great 
actors,  the  pantomime  was  even  greater  than  the  de 
clamation.  The  charm  consisted  more  in  the  wonderful 
meaning  she  was  able  to  throw  into  every  movement 
than  in  the  sonorous  tones  of  her  voice,  thrilling  as  its 
accents  were.  The  glittering  fire  of  her  eye,  the  world 
of  expression  in  her  mouth,  the  electric  motion  of  her 
limbs,  all  these  were  incomparable.  The  idea  that  it 
was  necessary  to  understand  French,  in  order  to  appre 
ciate  her,  is  absurd  ;  passion  speaks  a  universal  language, 
and  needs  no  interpreter ;  and  if  Rachel  had  uttered 


Rachel.  269 

not  a  word,  her  acting  would  still  have  been  consum 
mate  art. 

But  art  only  :  her  attitudes,  although  inimitable,  were 
so  exact,  that  by  no  possibility  could  one  of  them  have 
been  unprepared.  The  awful  minuteness  in  the  delinea 
tion  of  the  death  scene  in  "  Adrienne"  was  always  the 
same  ;  from  the  nervous  twitching  at  the  bosom  which 
first  indicated  the  action  of  the  poison,  to  the  last  atti 
tude  as  she  sat  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  set  and  every  limb 
fixed  with  a  rigidity  that  life  never  knew  before.  The 
same  gesture  always  occurred  at  the  identical  moment, 
and  always  exactly  in  the  same  place  ;  when  you  had 
seen  her  once,  you  had  seen  her  always.  Then  that 
wonderful  voice  of  hers,  always  true,  gave  like  an  in 
strument,  always  the  right  note  at  her  call ;  her  into 
nations,  like  her  movements,  were  never  changed.  But 
as  she  had  reached  absolute  perfection,  she  could  not 
change  the  slightest  gesture,  look,  or  tone,  for  the  bet 
ter.  Then  why  change  ?  You  could  not  quarrel  with 
her  for  not  deviating  from  what  was  superlatively  great ; 
only  this  proves  that  she  was  impassive,  intellectual, 
cold  ;  not  impulsive,  and  fitful  and  inspired. 

Neither  was  she  versatile  ;  her  greatness  was  only 
transcendant  within  her  own  sphere.  No  human  being 
ever  surpassed  her  rendering  of  classic  roles.  The  fear 
ful  curses  that  Camille  calls  down  on  Rome,  uttered  with 
an  earnestness  that  made  the  blood  curdle  in  one's 
veins ;  the  shame  and  torture  of  the  guilty  Phedre  over 
whelmed  with  passion  for  her  husband's  son,  and  the 
ecstatic  radiance  that  beamed  from  the  face  of  Paulino 
when  she  cried  :  "  Je  vois,  je  sais,  je  crois  " — all  these 
were  effects  such  as  will  never  be  equalled.  But  they 


2 JO  The  Vagabond. 

were  not  such  as  come  home  to  the  heart  of  mankind 
they  were  ideal  and  distant ;  classic,  beautiful,  or  terri 
ble  ;  but  Rachel  could  not  play  a  modern  woman  in  love : 
she  had  no  talent  for  comedy ;  her  Lesbie  was  not  wor 
thy  of  comparison  with  her  other  roles  ;  her  representa 
tion  of  Adrienne  only  became  transcendent  when  she 
became  tragic  ;  her  Tisbe  was  exquisite,  and  beautiful 
to  look  at,  because  she  could  not  be  ungraceful,  and 
dressed  with  superb  taste,  but  what  was  this  compared 
with  the  scorn  of  Hermione  ?  Others  play  Tisbe,  but 
who  will  attempt  Camille  ? 

Two  things  seem  to  me  to  have  distinguished  Rachel 
from  all  the  actors  whom  I  have  seen  or  read  of.  The 
first  is  the  classic  severity  with  which  she  embodied  the 
ancient  characters,  the  awful  feeling  of  fate  with  which 
she  could  invest  them,  the  reality  which  she  gave  to  the 
fables  of  antiquity.  Mon  plus  beau  rdle  de  Camille,  she 
rightly  styled  that  in  which  she  first  played  in  America. 
The  statues  that  have  come  down  to  us  do  not  so  realize 
one's  notions  of  Grecian  queens  or  Roman  maidens;  the 
ideas  we  had  of  Hermione  and  Virginia  were  not  so  true, 
or  so  exact,  or  so  exalted  as  those  she  gave  us.  No  one 
probably  ever  shared,  in  equal  degree,  this  power  to 
vivify  antiquity,  to  recall  the  interest  which  was  felt  by 
the  Greeks  in  the  amhpitheatre  of  Athens  three  thousand 
years  ago,  when  they  shuddered  over  the  same  crimes 
and  wept  over  the  same  woes  that  have  moved  the  entire 
cultivated  world  of  to-day. 

The  other  peculiarity  is  one  of  her  art,  or  her  tempe 
rament,  rather  than  of  her  intellect  or  taste.  It  was  the 
emotion  she  was  able  to  express  in  limb  and  form. 
Others  whom  I  have  seen  have  crowded  as  much  and  as 


Rachel.  271 

varied  meaning  into  their  faces ;  eyes  have  glared  as 
intensely,  mouths  have  been  as  mobile  and  as  passionate, 
nostrils  have  dilated  as  fiercely,  cheeks  have  faded  and 
reddened  at  will  like  hers ;  but  no  frame  ever  was  so 
instinct  with  feeling ;  no  step  had  such  significance ; 
no  hands  were  so  full  of  expression.  Think  of  the  writh 
ing  in  that  chair  of  Camille,  of  the  utter  relaxation  of 
nerve  and  form  into  the  agony  and  abandonment  of 
grief;  think  of  the  unutterable  scorn  with  which  she 
dragged  her  robe  from  the  clutch  of  OEnone,  in  "  Phe- 
dre  /'  think  of  her  attitude  as  she  sang  the  "  Marseil 
laise,"  and  tell  me  who  can  equal  these  ? 

Who,  indeed,  that  heard  and  saw  Rachel  when  she 
sang  the  "  Marseillaise  "  will  soon  forget  it  ?  She  chanted 
the  great  song  in  a  low  monotone,  the  orchestra  accom 
panying  her,  but  so  subdued  as  in  no  way  to  obtrude 
upon  the  ear.  She  had  been  playing  Camille,  and  wore 
her  tunic  alone,  the  outer  garments  thrown  off,  the 
Roman  head-dress  laid  aside,  and  came  close  up  to  the 
audience.  A  woman  singing  her  national  hymn  in  a 
strange  land,  an  actress  chanting  to  republicans  the 
strains  forbidden  in  her  own  home,  but  which  she  had 
sung  in  those  stormy  days  of  February — she  infused  a 
meaning  into  the  famous  "Marseillaise"  that  Rouget'de 
Lisle  never  dreamed  of.  She  looked  the  very  genius  of 
revolutions.  The  tri-colored  flag  was  on  the  stage,  and 
while  chanting  the  last  words,  Rachel  snatched  it  up, 
wrapped  it  round  her,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  kissed  the 
folds.  Of  course  she  acted  every  word  of  the  song ;  of 
course  she  made  one  feel  that  he  had  never  really  heard 
the  "Marseillaise"  before.  But  even  this  must  pass 
away.  Ilfaut  done  quitter  tout. 


AN    AMATEUR    OPERA. 

"  Know  you  the  musicians  ?" 
"  Wholly,  sir." 
"Who  play  they  to?" 
"  To  the  hearers,  sir." 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

NEW  YORK  society  is  divided  into  so  many  sets,  that 
not  often  does  one  subject  agitate  its  different  circles  ; 
especially  during  the  last  season  of  small  parties  and 
panic  reels,  has  it  been  more  divided  than  ever.  The 
Charity  fete  before  the  holidays,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
winter  the  Bachelors'  ball,  united  all  the  coteries,  it  is 
true ;  but  with  these  exceptions,  each  set  has  revolved 
in  its  own  sphere,  as  regularly  as  a  solar  system.  The 
vagabonds,  who,  comet-like,  shoot  out  of  their  legitimate 
circle,  and  intrude  within  the  influence  of  stranger 
luminaries,  or  where  a  foreign  sun  is  central,  are  few  and 
exceptional ;  not  to  be  taken  as  types.  However,  one 
theme  has  for  a  month  past  been  common  to  all  the 
drawing-rooms  in  town.  At  evening  or  morning  visits, 
at  wedding  matinees  and  charity  raifles,  at  Landers' 
parties,  at  caudle  parties,  and  on  the  promenade,  wher 
ever  society  has  congregated,  people  have  talked  about 
the  amateur  opera.  At  first  a  few  faint  whispers  got 
around ;  then  the  names  of  the  singers  were  known,  and 
the  talent  of  the  composer  was  discussed.  Some  re- 


An  Amateur  Opera.  273 

membered  that  the  opera  had  been  sung  a  summer  or 
two  ago  at  a  country  house  on  Long  Island  ;  others  were 
sure  it  was  entirely  new.  By-and-by,  one  or  two  for 
tunate  individuals  had  copies  of  the  libretto  sent  them, 
tastefully  bound  in  green,  with  the  compliments  of  the 
author  :  a  pleasing,  pretty  libretto,  too,  with  plot  enough 
and  character  enough  for  a  comic  opera,  with  dramatic 
situations,  with  language  sufficiently  characteristic  and 
amusing,  with  abundance  of  heroines  and  heroes,  so  that 
any  number  of  fashionable  amateurs  might  participate. 

Soon  the  rehearsals  began :  the  amateurs  learned 
their  parts,  and  sang  snatches  occasionally  to  a  friend. 
Some  critical  acquaintances  were  even  invited  to  attend 
a  rehearsal,  and  gave  such  glowing  accounts,  that  others 
were  anxious  to  share  the  pleasure  ;  and  before  the  opera 
was  really  given,  half  the  connoisseurs  in  town  had  heard 
it.  All  who  had  the  open  sesame,  agreed  that  the  mu 
sic  was  charming  ;  but  the  verdict  was  not  a  fair  one, 
cried  the  outsiders.  "  Invite  us  if  you  would  be  cer 
tain  of  impartiality."  However,  it  must  be  piquant, 
everybody  said,  to  have  your  acquaintances  perform  in 
opera ;  to  see  them  in  costume  and  character  ;  to  watch 
them  act  and  to  criticise  their  voices ;  to  compare  them 
with  artists.  Doubtless,  too,  the  amateurs  had  their 
enjoyment.  Think  of  the  triumphs  of  the  little  stage  ; 
of  the  delight  in  receiving  the  applause  of  such  select 
audiences ;  of  being  assured  by  historians,  and  critics 
and  millionaires,  that  they  only  need  make  a  public  de 
but  to  eclipse  all  the  prima  donnas  and  primo  tenores  of 
Irving  Place  or  Les  Italieus.  So  the  interest  increased 

All  the  world  was  anxious  for  tickets ;  the  perform 
ers  were  beset  with  notes  begging  for  invitations ;  the 


274  The  Vagabond. 

composer  and  author  and  host  combined  received  visits 
from  strangers  who  would  fain  become  his  guests  ;  and 
at  last,  in  order  to  gratify  everybody,  or  (more  import 
ant)  offend  nobody,  it  was  determined  to  take  a  public 
room,  and  sing  the  opera  on  a  regular  stage.  The  pub 
lic,  however,  was  to  be  excluded ;  the  whole  thing  was 
scrupulously  to  be  kept  out  of  the  newspapers  ;  none 
were  to  be  admitted  save  those  whose  names  were  sub 
mitted  to  the  inspection  of  the  elegant  Amphitryon  ; 
so  everybody  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  going. 
But,  alas,  for  the  frailty  of  human  expectations !  The 
dress  rehearsals  had  taken  place  at  the  theatre ;  the 
cards  were  engraved ;  we  were  all  promised  our  invita 
tions  ;  and  the  ladies  were  determining  whether  to  wear 
bonnets,  or  to  go  en  grande  tenue,  when  fell  disappoint 
ment  came.  The  young  ladies  who  were  to  sing,  got 
frightened  at  being  before  the  footlights  ;  they  rushed 
off  the  stage ;  they  never  could  face  such  an  ordeal. 
Besides,  the  thing  was  too  much  talked  of.  As  soon  as 
all  one's  friends  thought  themselves  secure  of  invitations, 
all  one's  friends  began  to  make  remarks  ;  and  the  result 
was,  that  no  performance  could  be  given  except  in  a 
private  house.  The  fifteen  hundred  invitations  dwindled 
down  to  five  hundred,  and  these  must  be  issued  for  three 
different  evenings.  Those  who  had  sixty  cards  to  dis 
tribute  were  cut  down  to  four,  and  some  who  were  an 
ticipating  front  seats  at  the  opera,  thought  themselves 
lucky  to  get  in  at  a  dress  rehearsal.  Oh !  how  some  of 
us  wished  we  hadn't  talked  so  much.  Those  of  us  who 
went,  however,  didn't  care.  In  fact,  we  relished  it  all  the 
better  for  the  exclusion  of  our  acquaintances.  And  so 
last  week  the  opera  was  given. 


An  Amateur  Opera.  275 

"  Flora,  or  the  Gipsy's  Frolic,''  'tis  called.  The  plot 
is  pretty.  A  group  of  villagers  are  singing  good-na 
turedly  and  unnaturally,  as  they  always  do  in  operas  ; 
a  pretty,  soprano  peasant,  with  a  satin  petticoat,  and  a 
lowly  but  handsome  tenor  for  a  lover,  is  smitten  with 
the  attentions  of  a  baritone  count,  in  a  fine,  red  coat  and 
with  a  martial  air.  The  peasant  Annette  jilts  her  young 
tenor,  who,  by  the  way,  has  as  delicious  and  delicate  a 
voice  as  Brignoli.  She  is  charmingly  coquettish,  and 
sings  sweetly  and  expressively ;  while  her  father  and 
mother,  two  worthy,  quarrelsome,  but  loving  folk,  make 
manifest  their  dispositions,  also  in  song,  and  in  some 
capital  acting  of  a  comic  sort.  But  the  count  is  not  to 
have  it  all  his  own  way.  A  gipsy  with  a  fine  voice  and 
such  a  pink  skirt,  predicts  trouble  to  the  baritone,  to 
the  tenor,  and  in  fact  to  all  the  various  singers  ;  she 
says  a  malicious  word  to  each,  enough  to  stir  up  some 
mischievous  sentiment,  makes  the  peasant  anxious  for 
the  gentleman's  notice,  sets  the  mother  crazy  for  a  bran 
new  bonnet ;  and  then  goes  to  her  most  important  task, 
that  of  exciting  jealousy  in  the  bosom  of  the  high-born 
Lady  Flora,  the  intended  bride  of  the  red-coated  count. 
Fine  ladies,  the  gipsy  finds  as  susceptible  to  naughty 
feelings  as  poorer  folk;  the  Lady  Flora  fires  with  jea 
lousy,  makes  herself  very  miserable,  and  her  audience 
very  happy  by  singing  a  mournful  contralto  song,  full 
of  pride  and  love  and  sorrow  and  tears  (les  larmes 
dans  la  voix),  and  when  the  count  next  appears,  resents 
his  inconstancy.  The  peasant  too  makes  her  swain  love 
lorn,  plagues  him  and  sends  him  to  sing  his  grief  in  a 
sweet,  expressive  strain,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Popinjay 
quarrel  away  in  a  really  characteristic  and  clever  duet. 


276  The  Vagabond. 

The  high-bred  singers,  chorus  and  all,  for  the  choruses 
too  are  ladies  and  gentlemen,  look  a  little  awkward  at 
first,  when  gazed  at  by  their  acquaintances,  and  cannot 
always  refrain  from  a  smile  or  a  glance  as  they  catch 
the  eye  of  a  friend.  The  peasants  in  their  hoops  and 
diamonds  sing,  however,  very  true,  and  at  last  get  quite 
rustic  in  their  manner.  After  a  really  fine  performance 
of  a  solo  or  a  duet,  the  performers  receive  a  call,  and 
come  out  to  curtsey  or  bow  in  recognition  of  the  delicate 
plaudits  of  the  audience.  It  looks  funny  to  see  some 
belle  of  the  winter  acknowledging  an  encore,  and  slip 
ping  back  behind  the  scenes;  or  a  fashionable  man  bow 
ing  before  the  footlights.  During  the  entr'acte  the  per 
formers  mingle  with  the  audience,  more  anxious  perhaps 
to  receive  their  compliments  and  show  their  finery,  than 
to  keep  up  the  stage  illusion;  but  illusion  there  had 
been  none.  The  pleasure  was  of  another  sort  than 
that  occasioned  by  ordinary  theatrical  representations. 
It  consisted  in  discovering  a  friend  in  that  fine  lady 
metamorphosed  into  a  peasant,  or  recognising  tones  you 
had  heard  in  society  ;  or  detecting  feelings  that  you 
fancied  might  have  existed,  but  could  previously  have 
only  suspected  in  the  actors  of  the  amateur  opera. 

But  the  curtain  is  raised  again.  The  wicked  gipsy 
having  wrought  all  this  mischief,  repents  of  what  she 
has  done,  and  sets  to  work  to  undo  it.  She  makes  the 
Lady  Flora  sure  that  her  lover  is  true,  induces  Annette 
to  return  to  her  fond  swain,  and  in  the  general  rejoicing 
old  Popinjay  is  so  delighted,  that  he  promises  his  wife 
the  bonnet  which  had  been  the  theme  of  all  their  quar 
rels  ;  so,  of  course,  all  ends  merrily. 

The    opera   lasts    three   hours,    and    contains    many 


An  Amateur  Opera.  277 

pleasing  strains ;  several  bits  of  melody  that  can  be  re 
membered,  and  a  drinking  chorus  that  has  been  a  favor 
ite  at  more  than  one  club-house  in  town  for  a  year  or 
two  past.  The  music  is  quite  dramatic,  and  at  times 
really  sweet  and  characteristic.  It  is  very  carefully  sung, 
having  been  rehearsed  daily  for  many  weeks ;  indeed, 
had  the  amateurs  been  artists  they  could  not  have 
worked  harder.  Daily,  from  eleven  to  three,  have  some 
of  the  first  ladies  in  New  York  been  engaged  in  their 
duties ;  daily  have  gay  men  devoted  themselves  to  the 
ta.-k.  And  they  acquired  a  facility  of  execution,  a  fa 
miliarity  with  their  parts,  that  made  the  performance  as 
fine  a  one  of  this  description  as  has  ever  been  known  in 
New  York.  The  choruses,  too,  were  excellently  given, 
a  number  of  fine  amateurs  consenting  to  lend  their  valu 
able  assistance  for  the  occasion,  by  kind  permission  of 
their  parents. 

It  is  well  known  that  a  really  high  degree  of  musical 
cultivation  exists  in  New  York;  very  many  young  ladies 
sing  with  a  skill  and  taste  that  are  quite  admirable; 
several  sweet,  fresh,  and  even  sympathetic  voices  are 
familiar  to  the  frequenters  of  musical  parties,  while  a 
fine  taste  in  such  matters  is  usual.  Private  concerts  are 
not  rare,  but  an  exclusively  amateur  performance  is  less 
common,  while  an  operatic  one  is  unprecedented.  Pri 
vate  theatricals  have  occasionally  varied  the  monotony 
of  balls  and  receptions  ;  readings,  too,  sometimes  occur; 
but  an  amateur  opera  has  never  before  been  given  in  New 
York.  The  singing  of  the  opera  was  the  same  that  has 
frequently  been  heard  ;  but  the  acting  was  at  once  sur 
prising  and  delightful.  The  naivete,  the  modest  simpli 
city,  with  a  dash  of  coquetry  of  the  peasant ;  the  tear- 


278  The  Vagabond. 

ful  pride  and  jealous  anxiety  of  the  lady;  the  manliness 
of  the  count ;  the  capital  humor  of  the  old  innkeeper, 
and  the  petulance  of  his  wife,  displayed  dramatic  talent 
that  was  hardly  looked  for  in  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  assumed  these  parts.  The  gipsy  and  the  peasant 
lover,  too,  were  well  performed,  and  the  choruses  did 
not  fail  to  do  their  part  to  make  the  production  of  "  The 
Gipsy's  Frolic "  one  of  the  most  pleasing  events  that 
has  of  late  occurred  in  New  York  society. 


HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 

"  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers." 

Twelfth  Night. 

MONTAIGNE  has  a  chapter  about  cannibals,  in  which  he 
contends  bravely  in  behalf  of  those  much  abused  indi 
viduals  ;  he  sets  forth  their  numerous  good  qualities,  and 
palliates  their  little  peculiarities,  proving  quite  to  his 
own  satisfaction  that  they  are  a  very  good  sort  of  peo 
ple,  after  all ;  and  he  tells  the  story  of  Pyrrhus,  when 
he  met  the  Roman  army  and  exclaimed  :  "  I  know  not 
what  kind  of  barbarians  these  may  be,  but  the  disposi 
tion  of  their  army  has  nothing  of  the  barbarian  in  it." 

Nearly  half  of  those  who  have  heard  of  Mr.  Beecher 
regard  him  as  a  monster  worse  than  any  cannibal ;  they 
would  be  more  surprised  than  Pyrrhus  to  discover  so 
little  of  the  barbarian  in  him.  For  it  has  happened  to 
him,  as  to  many  others  who  become  identified  with  a 
doctrine,  or  are  considered  the  embodiment  of  an  idea, 
that  he  is  lost  sight  of  in  the  doctrine ;  according  as 
people  hate  or  like  his  teachings,  they  hate  or  like  him ; 
he  is  praised  or  censured  not  at  all  with  reference  to  his 
personal  qualities,  but  as  men's  prejudices  or  convictions 
prompt.  The  radicals  swear  by  him,  while  the  conser 
vatives  cross  themselves  at  the  mention  of  his  name  ;  but 
it  is  the  abolitionist  who  is  offensive,  and  the  temperance 


280  The  Vagabond. 

advocate  who  draws  good  houses.  His  absolute  merits, 
his  abstract  traits  are  forgotten  in  the  struggle  that 
rages  over  the  doctrines  he  has  espoused.  Yet  the  fact 
that  he  has  become  so  completely  identified  with  those 
doctrines  proves  his  power;  plenty  of  other  people 
uphold  them,  yet  are  not  instantly  and  for  ever  asso 
ciated  with  them.  But  who  can  mention  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  and  not  think  of  his  politics  and  his  principles  ? 
He  is  they  and  they  are  he ;  they  in  him  and  he  in  them. 
The  very  identification  that  makes  his  individual  traits 
less  remarked  springs  from  the  marked  character  of 
those  traits. 

His  success  also  renders  him  worthy  of  notice ;  his 
position  is  established ;  his  mark  is  made ;  there  is  no 
denying  the  fact  of  his  prominence.  People  may  quar 
rel  over  his  notions  and  abhor  his  dogmas ;  they  may 
disapprove  every  one  of  his  actions,  and  reject  every 
one  of  his  teachings,  but  they  cannot  ignore  either  him 
or  them.  There  he  stands  ;  abrupt  and  offensive,  it  may 
be,  but  secure.  To  have  obtained  this  prominence  indi 
cates  ability  ;  to  have  rendered  himself  so  obnoxious  to 
praise  or  blame,  is  the  surest  proof  of  character. 

It  strikes  me  that  Mr.  Beecher  is  especially  a  man  of 
the  times  ;  a  man  fitted  for  the  very  position  he  holds  in 
the  public  eye :  not  for  the  ministerial  position  ;  I  do 
not  think  the  pulpit  his  sphere  ;  he  seems  to  me  a  stump 
speaker  who  has  mistaken  his  way  and  stumbled  into  a 
church  ;  he  would  be  more  at  home  in  a  congress  than 
in  a  synod  ;  in  the  state  assembly  than  in  the  general 
assembly ;  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  with  his 
feet  on  the  desk,  interrupting  the  speaker,  or  talking 
against  time,  than  reading  psalms  and  discussing  texts. 


Henry  Ward  Beecher.  281 

That  he  himself  feels  this,  is  apparent  from  his  con 
stant  dragging  the  topics  of  the  day  into  his  sermons. 
It  is  notorious  that  he  preaches  politics,  temperance, 
abolition,  what  you  will,  or  rather  what  he  will,  more 
than  religion.  Ultra  opinions  are  declaimed  in  the  most 
ultra  style ;  the  brawls  of  the  hour  are  introduced  into 
sacred  places,  and  the  mud  and  mire  of  politics  besmear 
the  robes  that  should  be  kept  pure.  The  influence  of 
religion  itself  is  injured,  its  sacredness  lessened,  its  effect 
curtailed  by  such  a  course.  Immoderate  and  indecorous 
as  Mr.  Beecher  frequently  is,  he  forgets  or  neglects  the 
precepts  of  his  master  to  insist  upon  his  own  notions,  or 
to  overthrow  his  own  opponents  ;  the  Christian  minister 
recalls  the  warning  of  the  heathen  poet : 

"Nee  deus  intersit,  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus 
Incident." 

But  if  not  fitted  for  the  pulpit,  he  is  fitted  for  his  place 
in  the  public  eye.  He  was  born  to  be  a  leader,  a  party 
leader  ;  to  control  men's  minds,  and  feelings  and  actions  : 
he  is  regarded  as  a  leader,  as  a  master  mind.  His  fol 
lowers  think  of  him  ten  times  oftener,  the  public  think 
of  him  ten  times  oftener  as  a  man  and  a  politician  than 
as  a  Christian  or  a  clergyman.  He  has  all  the  qualities 
of  a  man  of  mark ;  immense  energy ;  perseverance  never 
tiring,  never  flinching ;  fearlessness  that  sees  all  chances, 
and  takes  them  all,  whatever  they  be.  A  condensation 
himself,  an  exemplification  of  many  of  the  recognised 
traits  of  the  American  character ;  with  the  traits  inten 
sified  that  so  many  around  him  share ;  when  these  look 
on  him,  they  behold  themselves  and  approve.  He  is 


282  The  Vagabond. 

eminently  and  emphatically  of  this  age  and  this  country, 
and  herein  lies  the  secret  of  much  of  his  success.  For 
he  would  never  have  calmly  considered  what  the  age 
demanded,  and  then  shaped  his  course  accordingly ;  he, 
above  all  men,  could  not  conform  to  circumstances ;  he 
happened  to  be  born  in  a  time  and  country  where  just 
such  qualities  as  he  possesses  could  be  turned  to  best 
account,  but  he  would  do  and  be  just  what  he  does  and 
is,  no  matter  where  or  when  his  lot  might  be  cast.  And 
say  what  we  will,  few  of  us  calculate  our  chances  and 
make  our  conduct  correspond  with  the  result.  Even 
those  to  whom  we  give  credit  for  acuteness  and  long 
sightedness,  only  follow  their  natural  bent,  and  then 
make  their  philosophy  tally  with  their  practice.  Talley 
rand  was  a  philosopher  and  a  diplomatist  by  nature,  not 
from  principle ;  he  found  his  reasons  for  following  the 
course  he  did,  after  his  career  Avas  settled.  If  it  had 
been  his  interest  to  act  as  Henry  Ward  Beecher  does, 
do  you  suppose  he  would  or  could  have  acted  so? 

But  Mr.  Beecher  is  a  man  of  genius  as  well  as  a  man 
of  the  times.  He  wields  that  unaccountable  and  sympa 
thetic  influence  which,  wherever  and  whenever  exerted, 
is  instantly  recognised  and  felt.  This  it  is  that  makes 
one  man  more  popular  than  his  fellows  of  equal  talent 
and  character ;  this  it  is  that  secures  its  fortunate  pos 
sessor  regard,  though  much  that  he  does  be  disapproved 
or  disliked.  This  magnetic  influence  we  have  all  expe 
rienced.  The  eye  of  some  man  we  know,  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  the  charm  of  his  manner,  make  it  impossible 
to  refuse  him  anything,  however  unreasonable,  or  exor 
bitant,  or  preposterous  in  him  to  demand.  You  may  be 
angry  with  him,  but  he  can  soothe  you  in  spite  of  your- 


Henry  Ward  Beecher.  283 

self;  you  may  determine  to  affront  him,  but  you  find  it 
impossible.  This  sympathetic  power  in  private  life  has 
scarce  a  name ;  but  when  allied  to  other  gifts  is  called 
genius.  Combined  with  speech,  it  constitutes  eloquence. 

It  is  the  exclusive  gift  of  nature ;  the  most  consum 
mate  art  is  powerless  to  attain  it ;  indeed,  'tis  frequently 
distinct  from  and  opposed  to  art  ;  those  possessed  of  it 
are  often  not  only  inartificial,  but  grossly  natural.  This 
native  eloquence  is  Mr.  Beecher's  greatest  charm ;  he 
subdues,  or  enthralls,  or  moves  or  astounds  his  hearers; 
he  condenses  an  idea  into  a  word ;  he  flashes  a  brilliant 
simile  across  an  obscure  theme,  and  it  is  light  for  ever ; 
he  flings  a  profound  thought  out  in  clear  and  cogent 
language ;  he  stirs  you  up  to  all  sorts  of  queer  intentions 
utterly  contrary  to  those  of  your  whole  life  ;  he  extorts 
sympathy  and  emotion  and  tears  from  his  bitterest  oppo 
nents,  but  'tis  all  by  chance.  He  is  a  rough  diamond ; 
his  brilliancy  is  all  his  own,  and  not  the  result  of  the 
lapidary's  skill.  He  is  careless  of  style ;  he  constantly 
ofl'ends  a  nice  taste  by  incongruities  of  illustration,  and 
slovenly,  unfinished  figures ;  at  times  he  speaks  bad 
English,  and  uses  both  bad  rhetoric  and  bad  logic ;  he 
violates  all  the  rules  of  the  schoolmen,  except  when  he 
conforms  to  those  which  pretend  to  do  what  rules  can 
never  accomplish,  and  then  he  conforms  by  inspiration. 
They  conform  to  him,  not  he  to  them. 

His  fine  command  of  language,  forcible  but  never  ele 
gant  ;  his  flow  of  ideas,  always  interesting  and  sometimes 
strikingly  and  splendidly  original ;  his  lively  fancy,  so 
lively  that  its  images  are  as  often  homely  and  belittling 
as  elevated;  his  wit,  or  rather  abundant  humor,  and 
that  other  trait  never  far  off  when  humor  is  at  hand — • 


284  The  Vagabond. 

his  true  pathos ;  his  genuine  and  genial  sympathy  with 
misfortune,  and  his  downright  hearty  earnestness,  are 
characteristics  all  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  Besides 
these,  he  possesses  a  susceptibility  to  the  finest  influences  • 
of  art  and  nature ;  he  is  alive  to  the  beauties  of  natural 
scenery,  and,  if  he  could  throw  aside  Puritan  prejudices, 
would  enjoy  the  opera  as  keenly  as  Dr.  Bellows  or 
George  Sand.  I  can  fancy  him  applauding  the  roulades 
of  La  Grange  with  infinite  zest,  or  weeping  over  the 
woes  of  Camille  with  as  just  an  appreciation  of  Miss 
Heron's  genius  as  that  of  the  most  inveterate  play-goer. 

But  where  is  the  cannibal  ?  where  is  the  barbarian  ? 
Ah !  he  eats  human  flesh  ;  he  has  his  faults.  He  is  rough 
and  unrefined  in  diction  ;  his  manner  as  a  speaker  is  ener 
getic  but  ungraceful ;  his  gestures  are  awkward  though 
animated  ;  his  voice  harsh  and  under  little  control ;  his 
inflections  are  frequently  incorrect  and  his  intonation 
displeasing.  His  taste  is  never  subdued  nor  cultivated ; 
never  catholic  nor  enlarged ;  his  ideas  are  not  philoso 
phical  nor  well-digested.  He  is  a  man  of  action.  Ac 
tion,  action,  action — makes  up  his  notion  of  life  as  well 
as  of  oratory.  The  controlling,  directing,  restraining 
influence  of  judgment,  without  which  energy  and  intel 
lect  are  no  better  than  locomotive  engines  off  the  track, 
seems  to  be  lacking.  With  all  his  intuitions,  with  all 
his  insight  into  general  character,  with  all  his  knowledge 
of  man,  not  of  men,  wTith  all  his  jumping  at  conclusions, 
and  often  at  right  ones,  with  all  his  genius,  he  is  con 
stantly  off  the  track. 

His  independence  is  that  on  which  he  prides  himself 
most ;  it  has  done  him  the  most  harm  and  the  most  good. 
A  certain  degree  of  this  is  indispensable  to  a  man's  sue- 


Henry  Ward  Beecher.  285 

cess ;  but  what  if  it  is  offensive,  unchristian,  unministe- 
rial  ?  What  if  it  amounts  to  a  disregard  of  another's 
tastes  and  feelings  and  interests  ?  if  it  makes  him  careless 
even  of  the  effects  of  what  he  says  and  docs,  and  so 
work  against  himself?  if  it, makes  him  abrupt  and 
affrontful,  so  that  he  injures  any  cause  he  defends  quite 
as  much  as  he  aids  it?  He  stands  out  prominently, 
indeed,  but  so  does  a  scarecrow. 


EDWIN   BOOTH. 

"  Sometimes  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by." 

11  Penseroso. 

IT  has  been  of  late  very  much  the  fashion  to  speak 
slightingly  of  tragedy :  people  of  taste  and  accomplish 
ment  decry  the  stilted  walk  of  the  buskin,  and  prefer 
the  easy  gait  of  the  sock.  Or,  at  any  rate,  tragedy  must 
be  modern  and  real  :  we  must  have  every-day  life  and 
every-day  people :  Camilles  and  de  Varvilles  only,  it  is 
said,  can  interest  us  now-a-days.  I  confess  I  have  been 
tinctured  with  this  heresy.  I,  too,  have  fancied  that  the 
display  of  passion  on  the  tragic  stage  was  overdone  ; 
that  the  demonstrative  performances  of  Kean  and  Gar- 
rick  might  have  been  well  enough  for  Johnson  and 
Addison,  and  that  sort  of  people ;  that  Mrs.  Siddons 
was  all  very  well,  but  rather  too  pompous  or  too  grand  ; 
that  the  stage  must  represent  only  ordinary  life  and 
ordinary  incidents.  I  have  leaned  towards  realism. 
Peccavi. 

There  is,  however,  something  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
this  view.  When  you  have  no  great  actor  to  dispel 
your  theories,  you  may  go  on  and  prove  how  mouthing 
and  ranting  constitute  acting;  how  the  sentences  of 
Shakspeare  and  the  situations  of  Massinger  are  unna 
tural  ;  how  Lear  is  ridiculous  and  Richard  extravagant. 


Edwin  Booth.  287 

You  may  fancy  that  lago  is  too  wicked  and  Overreach 
too  miserly ;  you  may  say  how  charming  is  comedy — 
while  you  have  no  tragedian.  And  for  a  long  while 
there  has  been  no  man  on  the  English  or  American  stage 
to  contradict  such  notions.  Forrest  is  full  of  feeling  ;  but 
he  certainly  never  elevates  nor  refines  by  his  perform 
ances.  His  conceptions  are  not  intellectual ;  the  effects 
he  produces  are  by  physical  means ;  his  eye  is  the  hyena's, 
not  the  eagle's ;  he  moves,  but  inspires  not ;  horror, 
rather  than  sublime  terror,  is  the  emotion  he  excites. 
Macready  was  a  stately  elocutionist,  and  all  the  rest 
have  been  second-rate.  As  for  the  women,  Miss  Gush- 
man  is  not  the  one  to  disabuse  you  of  these  ideas ;  and 
Miss  Heron  is  very  likely  to  confirm  them.  With  all 
her  intensity  of  feeling,  with  all  her  power  over  your 
nerves,  she  yet,  like  Forrest,  neither  elevates  nor  refines. 
She  finishes  to  the  coarsest  and  minutest  detail,  she  has 
an  abundance  of  womanly  instinct,  and  a  great  ability 
to  express  it,  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  there 
is  another  and  a  higher  sphere  of  art  than  that  which 
she  essays. 

Edwin  Booth  has  made  me  know  wrhat  tragedy  is. 
He  has  displayed  to  my  eyes  an  entirely  new  field  ;  he 
has  opened  to  me  the  door  to  another  and  exquisite 
delight ;  he  has  shown  me  the  possibilities  of  tragedy. 
Though  he  has  not  yet  done  all  that  he  has  pointed  at, 
there  are  moments  in  his  acting  in  which  he  is  full  of  the 
divine  fire,  in  which  the  animation  that  clothes  him  as 
with  a  garment,  the  halo  of  genius  that  surrounds  him, 
not  only  recalls  what  I  have  read  of  others,  not  only 
suggests,  but  incarnates  and  embodies  my  highest 
notions  of  tragedy.  The  two  last  acts  of  "  Richard  HI.," 


288  The  Vagabond. 

in  which  he  walks  around,  the  moody,  restless  tyrant, 
or  slumbers  uneasily  and  wakens  wildly ;  the  tremen 
dous  energy  of  the  battle-scene  ;  the  rush  on  and  off  the 
stage ;  the  fight  with  Richmond  on  his  knees  ;  and  the 
awful  writhings  afterwards,  so  different  from  the  animal 
contortions  of  Mr.  Forrest,  are  instances  of  tragedy  in 
its  highest  and  most  legitimate  domain.  There  is  no 
cold,  debasing  realism  here  :  there  is  the  poetry  of 
the  stage,  the  realization  of  your  ideas  of  the  Richard  ot 
Shakspeare — a  royal  murderer,  a  kingly  monster,  a  man 
at  once  magnificent  in  intellect  and  terrible  in  passions. 

A  peculiarity  of  his  Hamlet  proves  at  once  his  ori 
ginality  and  the  refined  ideality  of  which  I  have  spoken. 
His  conception  of  the  ghost  scene  differs  widely  from 
any  I  have  seen  or  read  of.  Instead  of  representing 
Hamlet  as  overcome  by  animal  fear,  or  even  by  a  super 
natural  dread,  as  most,  if  not  all,  actors  have  done, 
Booth  portrays  him  awed,  of  course,  at  the  tremendous 
visitation,  but  still  more  imbued  with  a  filial  and  yearn 
ing  tenderness.  The  tones  of  his  voice,  especially  when 
he  falls  on  his  knees  to  the  ghost,  and  cries  out, 
"  Father  !"  the  expression  of  his  face,  and,  above  all,  of 
his  eye,  embody  this  new  and  exquisite  conception,  and 
seem  to  me  more  affecting  even  than  the  fright  of  Gar- 
rick  could  have  been,  which  Fielding  says  made  all  the 
spectators  also  fear.  .  Booth  makes  them  share,  instead, 
his  tenderness. 

Those  who  fancy  that  the  age  of  tragedy  is  gone, 
maintain  especially  that  Shakspeare  is  degraded  and 
belittled  by  being  acted.  Of  course  when  the  text  of 
the  greatest  of  dramatists  is  uttered  by  inferior  men,  it 
is  mangled.  Of  course  tame  or  ignorant  bunglers  mur- 


Edwin  Booth.  289 

der  Lear,  and  Henglers  mouth  in  "  Hamlet ;"  but  the 
most  susceptible  natures,  the  keenest  intellects,  those 
most  alive  to  the  subtle  meaning  of  the  poet,  or  mot,t 
affected  by  the  passions  of  the  play,  must  all  the  more 
acknowledge  and  appreciate  really  great  acting.  Ol 
course  some  things  cannot,  from  their  very  nature,  be 
well  played.  Dainty  images  of  Ariel  and  Puck 
are  better  never  embodied  ;  the  exquisite  utterings  of 
Miranda  may  be  quite  as  fitly  considered  in  the  closet ; 
yet  it  is  a  delight  to  have  even  these  suitably  repeated, 
while  the  strife  of  emotions,  the  grander  passions  of  a 
Macbeth,  an  Othello,  or  a  Richard,  get  fuller  utterance 
at  the  hands  of  an  inspired  genius,  than  they  ever  find 
embodiment  in  brain  or  heart  of  mankind  generally. 

Charles  Lamb,  I  know,  says  that  any  words  would  do 
as  well  as  Shakspeare's ;  if  they  had  the  plot  and  situa 
tions,  that  Banks  or  Lillo  could  write  another  "  Ham 
let,"  which  would  prove  quite  as  effective  on  the  stage 
as  that  which  contains  the  line,  "  I'll  call  thee  Hamlet, 
Father,  Royal  Dane ;"  as  the  play  which  is  full  of  op 
portunities  like  those  afforded  by  the  entire  scene  with 
Ophelia,  that  with  Gertrude,  or  the  interview  with  the 
Ghost.  He  says  the  exquisite  language  of  the  poet  goes 
for  nothing ;  that  the  coarse  outlines  of  the  character 
are  all  the  tragedian  can  grasp.  Was  this  so  when  Gar- 
rick,  in  "  Lear,"  gave  the  curse  with  such  effectiveness 
that  the  whole  pit  rose  involuntarily  and  in  tears  ?  Was 
this  so  when  Edmund  Kean  recited  the  lines  in  "  Othello," 
"  Then,  oh !  farewell,"  in  such  a  way  that  Hazlitt  declared 
those  who  had  not  heard  it  could  have  no  idea  of  perfect 
tragic  acting  ?  Did  it  make  no  difference  what  words 
were  utt  ered  then  ? 

13 


290  The  Vagabond. 

Then  take  good  plays,  Shakspeare's  especially,  which 
I  constantly  hear  it  said  are  unfit  for  the  stage,  are  too 
fine  for  acting,  take  those  which  are  acknowledged  to  be 
the  greatest,  and  do  they  not  receive  from  great  acting 
a  still  greater  development  ?  The  dramatic  truth,  th<3 
intensity  of  interest,  the  hurried  action,  the  accumula 
tion  of  incident,  the  marvellous  development  of  charac 
ter,  and  above  all,  the  portraiture  of  passion,  make  them, 
beyond  all  plays  that  ever  were  written,  fit  for  the  stage. 
The  energy  of  Richard  III.,  in  the  last  two  acts,  cannot 
by  any  possibility  be  so  imaged  by  the  mind  as  it  is 
brought  vividly  before  the  eye  in  a  theatre.  The  words 
get  new  life  and  significance  when  uttered  with  their 
suitable  concomitants.  How  much  more  forcible  to  see 
the  defeated  king  staggering  around  when  he  cries,  "  A 
horse !  a  horse  !  My  kingdom  for  a  horse  !"  than  to  read 
the  lines  calmly  at  home !  How  much  more  meaning  can 
be  infused  into  the  few  Avords — "  What  do  they^in  the 
north  ?"  than  most  people  find  in  them  alone.  I  con 
fess  I  am  not  of  those  who  get  from  the  genius  of  the 
stage  no  keener  appreciation  of  lines  and  words  that  I 
have  studied  often  before.  I  have  heard  things  said  of 
whose  intensity  of  import  I  had  no  previous  conception. 
I  read  a  play  again  before  I  go  to  see  it  performed,  so 
as  the  better  to  judge  or  appreciate  the  rendition.  I 
read  it  again  afterwards  to  recall  the  delight  the  player 
has  afforded  me ;  to  bring  up  the 

" strange  powers  which  lie 


Within  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye ;" 

to  summon  the  echo  of  the  tones  that  moved  me  so  in 
the  theatre. 


Edwin  Booth.  291 

There  is  one  advantage  that  the  stage  has,  which  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  seen  noted,  but  by  means  of 
which  it  will,  I  think,  be  acknowledged  to  add  a  force 
and  grace  to  the  most  exquisite  or  moving  language. 
How  many  emotions  are  too  subtle,  too  transient,  too 
shaded  for  expression  in  words  !  How  many  degrees  of 
passion  are  as  incapable  of  such  embodiment  as  the 
flash  of  the  lightning  on  the  canvas  of  the  painter,  or 
the  roar  of  Niagara,  even  by  the  brush  of  Mr.  Church ! 
And  yet  every  shade  of  feeling  can  be  expressed  on  the 
human  countenance.  The  look  that  comes  over  Rachel  in 
"Polyeucte,"  when  she  says — "  Je  vois,je  sais,je  crois," 
is  as  indescribable  as  the  thunder,  Avould  have  been  a 
revelation  to  Corneille  of  his  own  meaning.  And  shall 
this  be  called  a  mimicry,  afurberia  della  scena  ?  I  have 
heard  the  play  of  Ristori's  countenance  in  "Myrrha" 
described  as  still  more  prodigious,  though  I  cannot 
imagine  it ;  and  all  critics  have  agreed  that  action  and 
gesture  can  express  many  sentiments  beyond  the  reach 
of  words.  Churchill  says  of  Garrick  : 

"  Whilst  in  each  word  I  hear  the  very  man, 
I  can't  catch  words,  and  pity  those  who  can." 

Rachel's  pantomime  Avas  always  to  me  more  expres 
sive  than  her  tones.  Kean  was  frequently  inaudible  or 
incomprehensible  in  his  broken  sobs  of  passion ;  and  I 
have  watched  young  Booth  through  an  entire  act  without 
knowing  or  thinking  of  a  word  he  said.  (It  was  not  in 
Shakspeare,  however.)  This,  some  may  say,  will  prove 
that  Lamb  was  right ;  that  the  words  are  of  no  conse 
quence  ;  but  the  words  first  suggest  the  idea  to  which 
the  player  gives  further  utterance.  Is  it  heresy  to  talk 


292  The  Vagabond. 

of  an  actor  giving  fuller  utterance  to  Shakspeare's 
ideas?  If  the  human  constitution  is  capable  of  passions 
too  fleeting,  too  intricate,  too  tremendous  to  get  entire 
embodiment  in  the  language  even  of  a  Shakspeare,  may 
not  another  genius  incarnate  those  emotions  in  another 
form,  which  the  poet  has  first  completely  suggested? 

I  find  on  the  tragic  stage  rarely,  yet  there  it  is,  the 
actual  representation  of  the  ideas  of  the  poet ;  the  union 
of  lofty  passion  and  historic  character ;  of  exquisite  sen 
timent  and  sublime  poetry ;  the  begetting  of  an  idea  by 
one  genius,  the  bringing  it  forth  by  another ;  the  union 
of  soul  and  body,  of  spirit  and  matter;  the  manifestation 
of  the  divinity  of  poetry  in  the  flesh ;  what  otherwise  is 
intangible  and  unnatural,  only  perceptible  to  the  eyes 
of  the  soul,  actually  vivified  to  the  bodily  sense.  Such 
manifestations  of  course  are  like  all  manifestations  of 
genius,  apparent  only  in  two  or  three  men  in  an  age ; 
even  in  these  obscured  or  imperfect ;  but  when  I  can 
see  them,  I  throw  aside  my  books.  My  soul  is  reached 
through  the  medium  of  my  senses.  When  I  get  into 
another  world  I  shall  perhaps  be  so  ethereal  as  not  to 
need  palpable  images  or  external  means.  As  it  is,  I  am 
content  with  what  comes  through  eye  and  ear,  if  it  at 
last  reaches  the  brain  and  heart — the  very  man. 


THE  BEAUX. 

"  Here  comes  Monsieur  le  Beau." 

As  You  Like  It. 

ONE  of  the  court  preachers  at  the  time  of  the  Fronde 
began  his  discourse  by  dividing  it  into  thirteen  heads, 
whereupon  the  congregation  very  naturally  manifested 
signs  of  dissatisfaction  ;  but,  observed  the  wily  priest, 
"  at  present  I  shall  omit  a  dozen  of  them."  So  I  could 
readily  find  thirteen  varieties  of  beaux  to  discuss  with 
my  fair  readers,  who,  because  of  my  theme,  will  doubt 
less  favor  me  with  an  unusual  share  of  attention,  this  fine 
Sunday  morning ;  but  at  present  I  shall  omit  half-a-score 
of  them. 

The  three  species  of  beaux  most  common  in  New  York, 
those  most  distinctly  marked,  and  whose  habits  are  most 
generally  known,  are  the  old  beaux,  the  foreign  ones, 
and  the  dancing  men.  Every  belle  will  admit  that  for 
one  of  another  description  than  these,  she  has  met  a 
dozen  of  the  sorts  I  mention.  Let  her  think  who  pay 
the  most  frequent  visits,  who  are  the  most  regular  at  the 
opera,  who  send  the  finest  bouquets,  who  walk  on  Sun 
day  mornings,  who  attend  all  sorts  of  entertainments  in 
the  daytime,  and  go  wherever  they  are  asked  (which  is 
everywhere)  in  the  evening.  It  certainly  is  not  the  men 
of  great  intellect ;  these  go  to  dinners,  and  occasionally 


294  The  Vagabond. 

to  receptions,  or  to  some  extraordinary  fete,  but  that  is 
all;  it  is  not  the  men  of  business;  these  go  nowhere, 
and  nobody  wants  them,  for  they  think  and  talk  of 
stocks  and  of  trade  in  all  places  and  under  all  circumstan 
ces  ;  it  is  not  the  important  men,  who  go  into  society  only 
when  they  have  an  object,  who  give  balls  to  politicians, 
or  suppers  to  their  wives  as  these  pass  through  town  on 
their  way  to  the  capital ;  it  is  not  the  purely  literary 
men  ;  for  many  of  them  have  no  access  to  society,  and 
those  who  would  be  courted  and  feted,  find  it  compara 
tively  dull ;  not  even  vanity  takes  them  often  within  its 
magic  circle.  So  the  clever,  brilliant  women  have  to 
play  off  their  battery  of  wit  and  charms  on  effete  Pen- 
dennises,  on  foreigners  who  so  often  are  unworthy,  or  on 
the  jeunesse  doree  of  male  fashion — youths  with  fine 
manners  and  fine  clothes,  with  means  and  family,  with 
everything  in  the  world  but  brains. 

Some  of  the  women  like  the  old  beaux  :  these  are 
mostly  bachelors  of  a  certain  age,  or  widowers  ;  they 
are  bald  in  spots,  or  else  wear  toupees  of  a  glossy  jet ; 
they  are  precise  in  dress,  but  not  precisely  fashionable. 
Their  collars  are  very  stiff,  but  they  never  dare  wear 
them  in  the  newest  mode  ;  their  cravats  are  adjusted 
with  scrupulous  exactness,  but  they  look  got  up,  and 
the  old  fellows  are  so  afraid  of  disturbing  the  knots  that 
they  can't  turn  their  heads  to  one  side  or  the  other. 
They  are  all  ugly;  generally  ghastly  ;  youth  being  gone, 
and  one  or  two  teeth  besides,  whose  absence  gold  cannot 
supply,  one  or  two  wrinkles  having  come,  and  the  dye 
sometimes  wearing  off  before  'tis  detected  by  the  sufferer; 
these  devotees  of  the  beau  sexe  are  not  so  irresistible  in 
person  as  the  last  crop  of  dandies.  Besides,  they  have 


The  Beaux.  295 

the  rheumatism,  and  can't  dance  the  German  foi  three 
hours  after  supper ;  the  field  of  their  triumphs  is  not  the 
ball-room ;  they  stand  around  the  doors  and  look  on,  or 
they  hand  ices  across  the  table,  or  pick  out  French 
mottoes  with  superlative  elegance  ;  sometimes,  to  prove 
how  much  agility  is  left,  they  skip  through  the  Lanciers 
while  everybody  else  walks ;  but  when  the  redowas,  those 
fascinating,  fearful  dances,  that  the  young  women  persist 
in  liking,  when  these  are  reached,  your  old  beaux  must 
yield  the  floor.  They  may  have  been  turning  the  most 
courtly  compliments,  they  may  have  been  smiling  the 
most  winning  smiles,  they  may  have  been  making  the 
most  favorable  impression  or  the  most  excruciating  wit 
ticism,  but  some  dolt  with  heels,  and  long-winded 
enough  for  the  waltz,  snatches  the  beauty  a\\;ay,  just 
before  the  pith  of  the  joke  or  the  point  of  the  story,  and 
leaves  our  poor  old  friend  disconsolate  and  alone. 

How  delightful,  then,  for  him  to  watch  the  syren 
whirled  giddily  round  in  the  arms  of  a  youngster ;  how 
he  looks  carefully  about  to  see  if  any  one  has  detected 
his  discomfiture  ;  how  he  picks  himself  up,  and  turns  to 
some  matron  near  by,  whose  diamonds  never  attracted 
him  while  the  bright  eyes  were  blazing  so  much  more 
brightly  right  down  into  his  soul ;  how  he  talks  very 
bitterly  about  the  impropriety  of  the  waltz,  and  in 
wardly  determines  to  practise  it  the  very  next  morning, 
to  learn  that  fearful  leap  of  the  redowa,  that  has  been 
introduced  since  his  days  of  dancing  ended. 

Ah !  no,  the  ball-room  is  not  the  scene  of  his  triumphs ; 
nor  the  dinner ;  though,  of  course,  Monsieur  le  Beau 
is  aufait  in  all  matters  of  the  table ;  but  the  visit,  the 
reception,  the  opera,  the  ordinary  soiree,  where  he  can 


2()b  The  Vagabond. 

talk  his  small-talk,  can  get  off  his  studied  impromptus, 
can  repeat  to  every  lady  in  the  room  the  same  compli 
ment,  and  perhaps  recite  his  oi'iginal  poem  on  the  death 
of  a  canary  bird.  For  he  thinks  himself  intellectual ; 
he  criticises  new  books  as  well  as  new  singers ;  he 
gathers  ideas  from  the  newspapers,  and  retails  them  in 
society ;  he  does  even  write  verses  quite  often — some 
times  tolerable  ones,  more  often  intolerable ;  he  does  not 
deny  being  the  author  of  some  stinging  satires  handed 
around  occasionally ;  and  until  "  Nothing  to  Wear," 
or  "  Gems  from  Japonicadom,"  or  "  Aquarelles,"  or  the 
"Potiphar  Papers,"  were  formally  acknowledged,  he 
could  never  be  brought  to  say  that  he  was  not  guilty  of 
the  impeachment.  The  dear  old  fellows  are  satirical,  and 
critical,  and  hypocritical,  you  must  know.  They  are 
not  so  old  as  Polonius,  and  have  not  "grey  beards  and 
wrinkled  faces,"  and  the  other  appurtenances  that  Ham 
let  tells  of;  but,  like  Polonius,  they  declare  "  mobled 
queen  is  good ;"  and  like  him,  they  think  "  beautified 
is  a  vile  phrase."  Like  him,  too,  they  sometimes  enact 
Julius  Caesar  at  the  capitol ;  they  have  a  talent  for 
charades  and  tableaux  :  no  such  thing  is  complete  unless 
they  are  concerned,  nor  no  dejeuner  d  la  fourchette  un 
less  they  sit  down ;  no  wedding  unless  they  are  there 
to  look  at  the  cadeaux,  no  caudle  scarcely,  unless  they 
hold  the  baby. 

But  you  should  hear  them  recite  poetry ;  they  do  it 
with  so  much  feeling  and  sentiment;  they  gesticulate 
so  gracefully ;  lay  their  hands  on  their  hearts  with  such 
an  air ;  look  at  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room  with  such 
a  glance,  and  at  the  close  turn  their  eyes  meekly  up  to 
heaven,  or  down  to — the  carpet,  so  as  not  to  be  eiub^r- 


The  Beaux.  297 

rassed  by  applause.  And  they  receive  compliments  so 
modestly !  Men  of  such  genius  cannot  be  unconscious 
of  their  gifts ;  there  is  no  good  in  disclaiming  what  is 
patent  to  all  the  world.  But  'twas  Heaven  made  them 
different  from  other  people;  no  thanks  to  themselves. 
They  have  only  cultivated  what  the  gods  first  bestowed  ; 
they  sometimes  think  if  they  were  compelled  to  work 
they  might  do  and  be  something  in  the  world ;  and  did 
you  ever  hear  their  lines  on  Miss  Julia's  pimple  ?  or  do 
you  know  what  a  good  thing  they  said  about  Mrs.  Twee- 
die's  mole  ? 

The  readiness  with  which  they  catch  at  a  really  clever 
remark  made  by  somebody  else  is  an  instance  of  their 
remarkable  genius.  I  was  in  a  box  at  the  opera  on  the 
night  of  Piccolomini's  debut,  while  a  woman  of  sense 
and  taste  was  criticising  the  new  singer's  manner ;  "  She 
has  so  much  abandon."  The  beau  without  a  word  of 
acknowledgement,  without  even  an  "  Oh,  yes !"  or  a 
"  Very  true !"  coolly  exclaimed  :  "  And  then  there  is 
such  an  abandon  about  her,"  and  I  have  no  doubt  he 
went  all  around  the  house  talking  of  Piccolomini's  aban 
don.  Yet  the  women  rather  like  these  old  drones ;  the 
foolish  women,  and  you  know  there  are  some  such  in  so 
ciety,  look  at  them  with  amazement ;  regard  their  accom 
plishments  as  fabulous ;  never  express  an  opinion  until 
they  have  learned  what  Monsieur  le  Beau  thinks  of  the 
dancer,  or  the  picture,  or  the  poem :  while  the  clever 
women  tolerate  them  as  some  relief  after  the  ordinary 
vapidity  with  which  they  are  surrounded.  They  are 
the  fashion,  too,  and^  must  be  asked  for  that  reason, 
if  for  no  other ;  for  whoever  gets  the  reputation  of 
supreme  fashion,  need  give  himself  no  further  trouble  j 
13* 


298  The  Vagabond. 

he  is  feted  and  caressed  and  courted  till — his  day  is 
over. 

The  dancing  men  are,  however,  more  fashionable  still 
than  their  venerable  confreres.  These  are  they  with 
colorless  hair  and  meaningless  eyes,  who  get  curled 
every  day  in  the  Aveek  but  one,  and  then  have  no  time, 
or  something  occurs,  and  they  are  seen  with  dishevelled 
locks,  sadly  in  need  of  a  friseur;  these  are  they  with 
little  feet  and  delicate  hands ;  with  the  most  aristocratic 
bearing ;  who  wear  English  clothes  in  the  street — a  sort 
of  coarse  stuff  that  costs  more  than  broadcloth ;  who 
belong  to  the  most  exclusive  circles  ;  who  are  educated; 
who  never  speak  incorrectly ;  whose  manners  are  irre 
proachable  ;  who  are  in  years  from  twenty-one  to  twen 
ty-nine  ;  who  don  white  cravats  on  grand  occasions,  like 
the  Bachelors'  ball  or  their  cousin's  wedding ;  who  are 
not  often  seen  in  the  theatre,  and,  in  fact,  not  very  much 
known  out  of  their  own  set.  Very  many  are  young 
men  of  fortune,  some  have  been  abroad,  and  all  speak 
two  or  three  languages.  It  is  not  at  all  necessary,  how 
ever,  that  they  should  be  rich.  There  are  just  as  many 
people  of  high  fashion  whose  means  are  not  independent 
as  there  are  of  real  wealth.  'Tis  only  the  Potiphars  who 
worship  the  golden  calf  so  exclusively ;  in  fact,  I  think 
some  of  those  most  sought  after  in  the  best  circles  are 
absolutely  poor.  But  to  return  to  our  sheep.  These 
lambs  are  not  Brown's  men  (and  I  confess  I  think 
Brown's  men  altogether  mythological ;  you  hear  of 
them,  but  who  ever  met  one  ?  )  they  Avere  properly  in 
troduced  by  their  own  families  ;  everybody  knows  who 
they  are,  and  Avhat  they  are ;  and  they  are  nice  enough, 
only  so  vapid.  They  do  dance  divinely;  they  im-ent 


The  Beaux.  299 

new  figures  in  the  German,  and  never  get  tired  in  the 
redowa;  they  are  au  fait  in  etiquette,  quiet  in  de 
meanor  ;  but  did  you  ever  know  them  make  an  original 
remark.  Haven't  you  wondered  what  they  were  saying 
in  such  low  tones  during  the  pauses  of  the  Lanciers,  or 
while  they  sat  still  in  the  German  ?  They  seem  to  flirt ; 
but  I  don't  think  they  really  do.  The  girls  like  them 
to  dance  with,  to  walk  with  and  to  bow  to,  because 
these  supremely  fashionable  young  men  confer  distinc 
tion  by  their  attentions.  The  mothers  know  this,  and 
like  to  have  a  dozen  dangling ;  but  oh !  what  a  penalty 
they  pay !  A  woman  of  great  talent,  and  one  of  the 
leaders  of  society,  said  to  me  the  day  after  she  had 
given  a  party,  excessively  aristocratic  and  excessively 
stupid :  "  My  dear  Mr.  Vagabond,  you  and  two  others 
were  the  only  men  with  brains  who  were  at  my  house  last 
night."  I  wonder  to  how  many  more  she  made  the 
same  remark. 

Then  the  foreign  beaux !  The  day  for  these  is  gone 
by ;  they  are  not  so  much  admired  as  a  few  years  ago. 
Too  many  adventurers  have  been  intruded  into  respect 
able  houses ;  too  many  forged  letters  of  introduction 
have  been  presented ;  too  many  coarse  men  have  been 
taken  out  by  well-known  families,  and  afterwards  dis 
avowed.  Still,  even  when  these  men  are  adventurers, 
they  are  people  who  have  paid  attention  to  their  man 
ners  ;  they  are  people  with  a  natural  aptitude  for  society, 
and  with  some  accomplishments,  generally  with  a  know 
ledge  or  taste  in  musical  matters ;  they  can  dance,  and 
either  sing  or  play ;  they  are  often  handsome,  have  fine 
black  eyes  and  heavy  moustaches,  and  it  is  such  a  good 
chance  for  the  young  ladies  to  practise  their  French.  So 


300  The  Vagabond. 

the  success  that  undeserving  foreigners  have  often  met 
with  is  not  surprising ;  while  those  who  are  really  what 
they  pretend  to  be,  though  they  do  not  now  always  re 
ceive  so  gracious  a  welcome  as  would  have  once  been 
accorded  them,  have  still  no  reason  to  complain  of  cold 
ness  or  inhospitality.  There  are  still  houses  where  you 
will  meet  more  foreigners  at  a  reception  than  Ameri 
cans  ;  where  more  French  is  talked  than  English ;  where 
men  may  be  found  who  bear  titles,  but  do  not  claim 
them ;  people  with  historic  names  and  no  pretence. 
These  are  as  charming  as  the  old  men  of  real  culture,  or 
the  young  ones  who  can  talk  as  well  as  they  dance,  and 
whose  ideas  are  as  brilliant  as  their  behavior.  Of  si  sic 
omnes  ! 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

"This  strange,  eventful  history." 

As  You  Like  It. 

THERE  are  two  methods  of  writing  history  ;  one,  that 
of  the  annalist  Avho  registers  every  event  with  scrupu 
lous  fidelity,  omitting  no  circumstance  that  can  possibly 
throw  light  on  the  characters  or  actions  of  his  subjects ; 
who  adorns  his  theme  with  picturesque  and  learned 
descriptions,  and  paints  in  glowing  colors  the  manners 
of  the  times,  as  well  as  the  individual  traits  of  his  per 
sonages  ;  who  decorates  his  page,  perchance,  with  all  the 
graces  of  style,  and  makes  himself  famous  for  his  elo 
quent  and  animated  composition,  his  simple  and  pictu 
resque,  or,  it»may  be,  his  rich  and  ornate  language  ;  but 
Avho  confines  himself  to  description  and  narration  ;  who 
neither  seeks  to  account  for  wondrous  deeds,  nor  pry 
into  the  secret  springs  of  character,  nor  to  deduce  les 
sons  from  the  remarkable  events  he  chronicles.  The 
other  method  is  that  of  the  man  who  either  writes  with 
an  aim,  to  magnify  a  character,  to  defend  a  revolution, 
to  uphold  a  party,  or  to  damn  with  everlasting  infamy 
some  opponent ;  or  who  at  least  has  settled  convictions, 
and  finds  it  impossible  or  undesirable  not  to  indicate 
them  in  his  writings.  He  considers  history  to  be  philo 
sophy  teaching  by  example,  and  believes  it  to  be  the 


qo2  The  Vagabond. 

v-J  O 

province  of  the  historian  to  expound  her  lessons.  He 
affects  no  blindness  to  faults  or  merits,  and  though  he 
strives  to  be  and  believes  himself,  and  often  is  impartial,  he 
scruples  riot  to  administer  praise  and  blame.  He  does 
not  hold  the  scales  and  leave  it  to  others  to  declare  the 
result ;  he  does  not  sum  up  the  good  or  bad  in  a  character, 
and  neglect  to  announce  the  conclusion.  He.  pronounces 
judgment  on  the  various  individuals  who  pass  in  review 
before  him  ;  he  does  more ;  he  traces  the  results  of 
events  ;  he  portrays  the  consequences  of  certain  actions, 
and  points  them  out  as  a  warning  or  a  beacon  to  man 
kind.  He  deduces  opinions  from  his  studies,  and  up 
holds  them  by  arguments  drawn  from  those  studies. 
He  also  searches  out  the  causes  of  the  momentous 
occurrences  whose  history  he  narrates  ;  he  seeks  in  the 
great  principles  of  nature,  in  the  fundamental  character 
istics  of  man  and  of  his  Maker,  the  reasons  for  many  cir- 
cumstances  that  appear  unaccountable.  One  relates 
faithfully,  but  refrains  from  biassing  the  opinion  of  his 
readers  except  so  far  as  facts  may  have  an  influence  ; 
the  other  openly  places  facts  in  such  a  position  that  they 
shall  maintain  his  views.  One  sifts,  and  balances,  and 
tries  and  measures ;  the  other  is  often  an  advocate 
rather  than  a  judge,  and  always  an  executioner.  This 
one  is  content  with  the  painter's  skill  and  the  artist's 
fame  ;  that  one  seeks  also  to  convince  and  persuade,  and 
would  fain  be  recognised  as  a  teacher  and  a  philosopher 
as  well  as  an  annalist ;  the  former  spreads  out  a  recital 
of  facts,  the  latter  dives  into  the  recesses  of  opinion. 
One  is  always  clear,  uncontroversial,  and  allows  every 
reader  to  determine  for  himself;  the  other  is  too  often 
heated  and  unfair,  sums  up  for  one  side,  and  alas !  some- 


George  Bancroft.  303 

times  distorts  and  conceals  the  truth,  to  make  it  seem  to 
warrant  his  conclusions.  Yet  the  former,  when  most 
excellent  in  his  sphere,  must  always  be  content  with  a 
lower  rank  than  that  assigned  to  the  profound  and  elo 
quent  philosopher  who  not  only  sets  before  mankind  the 
course  of  events,  but  is  also  able  to  expound  their  causes 
and  point  out  their  effects. 

America  has  furnished  a  brilliant  example  of  success 
in  each  of  these  departments.  One,  the  elegant  and 
learned  scholar  who  has  given  the  world  such  fascinating 
narratives  of  life  in  the  middle  ages,  and  such  lively, 
picturesque  descriptions  of  those  romantic  times  in  Ame 
rican  history  when  the  conquest  of  a  barbaric  empire 
was  twice  accomplished  by  a  handful  of  European  chi 
valry.  Another,  the  profound  thinker  and  eloquent 
writer,  who  first  has  related  worthily  to  his  countrymen 
the  progressive  rise  of  the  modern  republic  ;  who,  with 
penetrating  vision,  has  detected  in  slight  circumstances 
the  source  of  a  mighty  torrent  of  events  ;  who  has 
grouped  into  symmetrical  and  harmonious  positions  the 
growing  colonies,  and  shown  the  consentaneous  develop 
ment  of  principles  and  sentiments,  of  national  character 
and  embryo  power,  resulting,  at  last,  in  the  edifice  of 
empire  whose  domain  stops  not  with  the  shore,  nor  is 
bounded  by  the  elements,  but  reaches  across  the  conti 
nents  and  beyond  the  seas. 

Mr.  Bancroft's  work  is  the  great  American  classic ; 
its  theme  the  finest  that  could  at  this  moment  engage 
the  student  or  the  philosopher.  The  states  of  antiquity 
and  the  provinces  of  modern  dominion  have  all  furnished 
worthy  subjects  to  the  contemplation  of  the  learned  ; 
but  no  nobler  study  can  be  imagined  than  the  problem 


304  The  Vagabond. 

afforded  by  America.  'Tis  trite  because  so  often  ban 
died  by  the  incompetent ;  but  when  elevated  to  its  pro 
per  dignity,  and  treated  by  one  who  has  fitted  himself 
for  his  task  by  long  and  arduous  research,  by  profound 
contemplation,  and  by  extensive  intercourse  with  affairs  ; 
when  viewed  from  the  lofty  stand-point  assumed  by  Mr. 
Bancroft,  and  then  so  nobly  discussed,  with  such  ardor 
and  mingled  impartiality,  the  proportions  of  the  theme 
are  developed  in  their  true  grandeur,  and  convince  one 
that  they  equal  any  ever  attempted  by  historian. 

The  great  research  of  Mr.  Bancroft  is  perhaps  first 
evident  to  one  who  carefully  reads  his  volume  ;  the  delv 
ing  into  old  records ;  records  not  carefully  treasured  up 
as  the  archives  of  a  state  or  the  heir-looms  of  an  adminis 
tration,  but  thrown  aside  into  lumber-rooms,  existing  in 
tattered  correspondence,  or  only  in  obscure  traditions ; 
scattered  over  a  country  reaching  thousands  of  miles, 
or  hidden  in  the  closet  of  any  one  of  twenty  cabinets 
abroad,  whose  predecessoi's,  some  centuries  ago,  assisted 
to  colonize  America;  disjecta  membra  confided  to  fami 
lies  now,  perhaps,  extinct ;  all  this  curiously  noted  and 
studied ;  a  piece  of  information  gathered  here  ;  a  hint 
from  this  speech  ;  a  word  from  that  document ;  a  clue 
found  yonder ;  a  ray  of  light  detected  there ;  volumes 
ransacked  for  a  single  name  ;  journeys  travelled  to  verify 
a  date ;  correspondences  carried  on  to  ascertain  one  cir 
cumstance — these  must  be  evident  to  the  most  casual 
observer.  And  then  the  skill  with  which  the  kernel 
has  been  extracted  from  the  chaff;  the  penetrating  mind 
which,  out  of  a  mass  of  material  so  incongruous,  has 
instantly  discovered  what  tended  to  elucidate  its  pur 
pose  ;  the  peculiar  ability  for  gathering  from  so  many 


George  Bancroft.  305 

unlikely  and  distinct  quarters  what  would  converge  upon 
a  single  point,  is  also  most  remarkable.  Continuous  ap 
plication  is  a  trait  of  the  mere  annalist ;  but  the  ability  to 
extract  the  gist  of  a  matter,  to  perceive  the  use  to  be  made 
of  a  fact,  to  discover  the  growth  of  an  opinion,  the  origin 
of  a  party,  the  expansion  of  a  sentiment  by  the  light  of 
some  apparently  indifferent  or  insignificant  cimimstance, 
this  is  a  characteristic  that  belongs  to  the  historian  alone. 

The  ardor  which  Mr.  Bancroft  brings  to  his  work  is 
one  of  his  most  prominent  commendations.  He  appre 
ciates  its  importance  to  his  country  and  to  the  race  ;  he 
also  perceives  its  grandeur,  and  his  is  a  mind  susceptible  to 
impressions  of  sublimity  and  beauty  in  no  ordinary 
degree.  He  takes  in  the  entire  scope  of  his  subject,  its 
infinite  relations  to  the  past  and  the  future  ;  he  foresees 
how  it  may  affect  the  ultimate  destiny  of  man.  He  is 
himself  full  of  lofty  thought :  while  so  practical  as  to 
neglect  no  detail,  he  is  yet  imbued  with  a  belief  in  the 
progress  of  the  race,  and  a  noble  sympathy  with  every 
true  reform ;  he  shares  the  hopes  and  aspirations  that 
were  and  are  the  redeeming  trait  of  the  splendid  French 
idealists,  and  fancies  that  the  noblest  of  those  aspirations 
may  be  realized  in  America.  Profoundly  impressed  with 
these  ideas,  he  devotes  to  his  task  at  once  a  far-seeing 
vision  and  a  fervor  which  fit  him  to  do  ample  justice  to 
so  grand  a  theme. 

He  may  at  times  trace  fanciful  connexions  and  deduce 
his  conclusions  from  very  distant  premises ;  he  does  occa 
sionally  evince  a  tendency  to  the  visionary  character  that 
is  the  result  of  too  great  a  fondness  for  the  ideal ;  but  this 
is  at  times  to  be  expected ;  and  he  manifests  but  few 
instances  of  biassed  judgment.  His  opinions  are,  like 


The  Vagabond. 

those  of  all  mankind,  sometimes  influenced  by  his  wishes 
or  his  fancies;  but  few  of  his  temperament  are  so  calm 
and  equable  as  he  ;  few  who  ardently  engage  in  a  cause 
can  yet  be  so  impartial,  be  so  just  to  its  opponents.  lie 
has  but  little  bitterness,  except  for  the  foes  of  right ; 
he  indeed,  sometimes,  makes  scarcely  that  allowance 
for  the  frailties  of  human  nature  that  we  expect  from  a 
philosopher ;  but  his  indignation  is  so  generous  that  one 
is  apt  to  be  caught  up  in  it  before  he  is  aware. 

With  all  these  characteristics  of  mind  Mr.  Bancroft 
combines  the  splendid  talents  that  give  his  history  its 
peculiar  fascination.  He  is  eloquent  and  rhetorical  in 
the  last  degree  ;  he  sees  the  poetical  side  of  his  subject, 
and  at  intervals  presents  it  in  glowing  language  to  the 
apprehension  of  his  readers ;  yet  his  imagery  is  not 
offensively  nor  too  frequently  introduced ;  his  embellish 
ments  arc  reserved  for  telling  occasions;  but  when  these 
arrive,  after,  by  lucid  expositions  and  dispassionate  nar 
rative,  by  cogent  reasoning  and  an  indisputable  array  of 
facts,  he  has  brought  your  mind  into  a  proper  state,  he 
launches  out  into  strains  of  bold  and  animated  declama 
tion  that  to  most  readers  are  irresistible. 

The  grand  and  epic  unity  of  his  subject,  evolved  only 
by  him,  from  the  fragmentary  history  of  a  dozen  scat 
tered  colonies,  its  gradual  development,  the  care  with 
which  he  has  traced  a  kindred  in  feeling  if  not  always 
in  race,  the  p*ans  he  chants  after  a  triumph  of  justice, 
the  tribute  he  pays  to  talent  and  virtue  wherever  found, 
his  earnest  love  for  truth,  his  profound  impression  of 
the  right  of  man  to  freedom,  his  noble  aspirations,  his 
generous  sympathy  with  the  oppressed,  his  manly  indig 
nation  at  wrong;  his  fervid  patriotism  and  kindling  in- 


George  Bancroft.  307 

terest  whenever  his  country  is  particularly  concerned ; 
his  largeness  of  soul,  that  takes  in  all  mankind ;  his  eye 
for  the  picturesque,  evinced  in  exquisite  descriptions  of 
natural  scenery ;  his  delicate  perceptions  of  musical 
beauty,  bespoken  by  the  measured  elegance  of  his  style, 
and  the  lofty  eloquence  with  which  he  rises  at  times 
almost  into  the  sphere  of  the  poet,  all  indicate  that 
George  Bancroft  has  not  mistaken  his  vocation — all  lit 
him  most  admirably  for  the  task  of  relating  to  his 
couutrymen  and  the  world  now  living,  as  well  as  to 
posterity,  the  history  of  the  republic  whose  existence, 
whose  growth,  whose  magnitude,  and  whose  future  are 
alike  the  admiration  and  the  mystery  of  modern  times. 


THE  PRIMA  DONNAS. 

"Here  come  more  voices." 

Coriolanus. 

THE  town  is  infested  with  prima  donnas  ;  there  is  one 
at  the  Academy  with  a  train  behind  as  long  as  the  pro 
cession  of  Ranquo's  children,  including  those  that  were 
imaged  in  the  glass :  there  are  two  on  the  unaccustomed 
boards  of  Burton's  theatre,  and  the  parquet  that  last 
applauded  the  fun  of  Matthews  or  the  wit  of  Brougham, 
now  is  filled  with  admiring  cognoscenti  who  listen 
eagerly  to  Gazzaniga's  declamation  or  Colson's  French 
performances.  There  has  even  been  an  opera  at  Wai- 
lack's;  oratorio  singers  essaying  to  enter  the  domain  of 
profaner  art ;  and  I  read  in  the  newspapers  of  English 
opera  shortly  to  be  given  here,  the  American  singer,  Lucy 
Escott,  coming  home  to  enchant  her  countrymen.  This 
is  not  all :  Mrs.  de  Wilhorst  is  expected  to  arrive  by 
the  next  steamer,  to  make  a  new  debtit,  and  Parodi  is 
about  to  bid  us  another  last  farewell.  Germans,  Italians, 
French  and  Americans — the  hardest  to  please,  should 
find  something  agreeable  in  this  embarras  de  choix. 

How  different  from  the  days  when  Bertucca  reigned 
supreme  at  the  Astor  Place !  Her  right  there  was  none 
to  dispute;  no  rivals  with  just  the  attractions  which  she 
did  not  possess ;  whose  novelty  would  compensate  with 
the  inconstant  crowd  for  the  lack  of  every  other  quality. 


The  Prima  Donnas.  309 

Bertucca  was  the  first  opera  singer  I  ever  heard ;  my 
memory  goes  no  further  back  than  the  Astor  Place  era ; 
I  have  read,  indeed,  in  history,  of  Palmo's  opera  house, 
and  of  the  Greek  chorus  in  the  time  of  ^Eschylus ;  I 
know  that  there  were  singers  in  this  country  whose 
names  may  be  seen  still  in  the  old  files  of  the  New  York 
Mirror :  I  have  heard  that  Malibran  sang  at  the  Bowery 
theatre  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  Think  of  that,  ye 
leaders  of  the  ton!  the  Bowery  theatre,  now  given  over 
to  melodrama  of  the  bloodiest  and  noisiest  sort ;  where 
actors  sink  who  cannot  be  tolerated  on  Broadway ;  the 
favorite  resort  of  those  who  eat  peanuts  and  applaud 
red  fire ;  the  Bowery  theatre  was  once  crowded  with 
fine  folk,  and  its  walls  have  echoed  to  the  dulcet  strains 
of  Rossini's  "  Barber."  Yes,  Malibran  sang  there ;  per 
haps  as  great  a  prima  donna  as  has  sung  in  NCAV  York 
since.  I  know  it  to  my  cost.  The  first  night  that  I 
heard  Jenny  Lind,  I  was  with  an  old  aunt,  who,  unfor 
tunately,  had  listened  to  Malibran  in  that  dim  and  dis 
tant  past  when  the  Bowery  theatre  was  fashionable.  I 
remember  distinctly,  that  when  the  singer,  who,  to  my 
unpractised  ear,  was  absolute  perfection,  and  whose 
notes  I  had  been  drinking  in  with  entranced  attention, 
closed  her  first  song,  and  I  was  gasping  for  breath,  Aunt 
Sally  turned  round  to  me  and  said :  "  Ah  !  she  isn't 
equal  to  Malibran."  What  was  Hecuba  to  me  ?  What 
did  I  care  for  Malibran  ?  'Twas  the  cruelest  speech  I 
ever  heard ;  it  dashed  down  all  my  extacies ;  it  spoiled 
my  evening ;  and  I  never  heard  Jenny  Lind  afterwards 
without  thinking  of  Malibran.  I  take  good  care,  in  my 
turn,  to  interrupt  none  of  Gassier's  unfledged  admirers 
by  talking  of  Bosio. 


310  The  Vagabond. 

But  revenon*  d  notre — Bertucca.  I  shall  never  forget 
her  singing  in  "Lucia,"  on  that  first  night  that  I  sat  in  an 
opera  house.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Willis  didn't  admire 
her,  and  had  called  her,  in  the  Home  Journal,  a  painted 
French  doll,  but  I  thought  her  a  yoiing  and  pretty  girl. 
She  wasn't  buxom  then,  and  hadn't  become  Madame 
Maretzek ;  I  thought  her  voice  full,  and  true  and  flexi 
ble,  that  night ;  but  I  heard  Truffi  the  next  in  "  Ernani," 
and  though  I  couldn't  understand  a  word  of  the  plot, 
and  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  understand  all  of  the 
plot  now,  I  perceived  Truffi's  superiority.  And  what 
plots,  to  be  sure,  Verdi  does  select !  Who  can  unravel 
the  "  Rigoletto,"  and  who  can  tell  what  the  "  II  Balen" 
is  about  ?  Why  does  the  prima  donna  come  on  in  man's 
attire,  and  why  does  Amodio  get  so  excited,  and  what 
is  Brignoli  brandishing  his  sword  so  violently  for  ? 

I  have  heard  "Ernani"  often  since,  but  the  confusion 
remains.  Those  were  times  of  confusion  ;  those  were 
the  days  of  the  lesser  Astor-Place  riots,  when  Truffi 
and  Laborde  had  each  her  admirers ;  when  swords  were 
drawn  in  earnest  behind  the  scenes  and  in  the  lob 
bies  ;  when  Mr.  Lupus  got  up  in  his  box  and  called  out 
to  the  people  on  the  stage.  Horace  Walpole  did  the 
same  thing  in  London  a  century  ago,  and  tells,  with  in- 
iinite  glee,  in  one  of  his  letters,  that  his  friend  dubbed 
him  Wat  Tyler  on  the  spot.  Those  were  the  days  when 
the  famous  Fry  and  Bennett  quarrel  originated,  which 
has  not  terminated  yet.  Those  were  the  days  when  the 
women  went  to  the  opera  in  the  grandest  of  toilettes ; 
when  white  gloves  and  a  dress-coat  were  de  rigueur  for 
the  men;  when  the  general  public  cared  nothing  for 
music  of  the  Italian  sort,  and  when  that  music  was  not 


The  Prima  Donnas.  311 

o:ie  tenth  part  as  good  as  what  you  can  hear  at  two 
theatres  in  town  next  week.  Those  days  are  over.  You 
may  now  go  to  the  opera  dressed  for  the  street,  and  not 
be  remarkable ;  you  may  go  and  not  see  an  acquaint 
ance  (if  'tis  in  the  summer);  you  may  go  and  remember 
the  glories  of  Truffi,  and  Bertucca  and  Parodi ;  but  will 
you  regret  them  ? 

Parodi  made  her  debdt  at  the  Astor  Place.  She  came 
out  in  the  midst  of  the  Jenny  Lind  excitement ;  but  she 
had  ;i  furore  of  her  own.  I  believe  she  has  one  still,  occa 
sionally,  at  New  Orleans  and  Cincinnati;  but  she  can 
never  make  another  here :  she  was  tried  and  found 
wanting,  a  winter  or  two  ago.  After  Parodi,  Bosio  and 
Steffanone  sang  at  Castle  Garden  ;  and  will  opera-goers 
ever  forget  those  summer  nights,  with  moonlight  stream 
ing  on  the  bay,  Staten  Island  almost  discernible  in  the 
distance,  the  shipping  moored  around,  and  such  exqui 
site  singers  as  have  scarcely  been  equalled  since,  Avar- 
bling  away  in  the  music  of  Bellini  and  Donizetti  ?  Verdi 
was  not  the  fashion  then.  "  Lucia"  and  "  Sonnambula" 
were  the  pet  operas :  Bosio  was  the  favorite  singer,  and 
deserved  to  be  so  ;  New  York  first  recognised  the  exqui 
site  quality  of  a  voice  which  has  to-day  no  equal  in 
Europe  for  purity,  sweetness  and  executive  power. 
There  was  the  sensuous  Steifanone,  too,  one  of  the 
true  lyric  queens,  an  actress  of  such  consummate  drama 
tic  skill  that  only  Grisi  was  more  superb  ;  effective  at 
once  in  music  and  action.  Steffanone  was  duly  appre 
ciated,  though  she  seems  forgotten  now.  But,  amid  all 
the  successes  of  the  "Trovatore,"  I  have  never  forgotten 
that  Steffanone  first  sang  it  in  New  York,  and  never  has 
it  been  sung  so  well.  Neither  La  Grange,  with  her 


312  The  Vagabond. 

French  method,  nor  Mrs.  de  Wilhorst,  nor  Parodi,  LCI 
Gazzaniga,  with  her  intensity,  nor  any  other,  has  so  com 
bined  the  delights  of  music  and  tragedy,  in  the  role  of 
Leonora,  as  Steffanone. 

But  there  have  been  others  of  more  world- wide  re 
nown.  Jenny  Lind  indeed,  was  only  a  concert  singer ;  she 
made  a  fiasco  abroad  in  "  Norma,"  and  cannot  be  num 
bered  among  the  great  prima  donnas ;  but  Alboni,  the  in 
comparable,  with  her  classical  face  and  her  delicious  voice 
— undoubtedly  the  most  delicious  in  the  world;  with  her 
lazy  manner  and  those  wonderful  contralto  notes  of  hers ; 
do  you  remember  how  they  were  introduced  in  the 
Brindisi  of  "  Lucrezia  ?"  And  Sontag,  so  charming,  so 
delicate,  so  interesting,  so  admirable  an  actress ;  surely 
no  one  has  ever  had  her  success  since  in  the  "  Sonnam- 
bula ;"  none  but  she  ever  dared  go  across  the  stage  on 
her  knees.  Poor  Sontag!  Her  sad  fate  will  always 
make  her  kindly  remembered.  The  pet  of  European 
courts,  the  queen,  at  intervals  of  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
of  the  operatic  stage,  she  ended  her  brilliant  but 
chequered  career  on  a  foreign  and  deserted  shore,  away 
from  friends,  and  home  and  fortune ;  and  the  very  form 
that  had  been  clad  so  superbly,  and  had  once  moved  so 
gracefully,  and  wakened  such  admiration,  was  denied 
the  commonest  rites  of  sepulture. 

But  I  cannot  delay ;  the  time  would  fail  me  to  speak 
of  Thillon  with  her  curls  and  her  eyes,  and  her  airs  and 
her  graces ;  of  Frezzolini ;  of  Catherine  Hayes  and  her 
Irish  ballads ;  of  La  Grange,  who  was  the  friend  of  so 
many  that  I  would  not  dare  to  speak  an  unkind  word 
about  her  if  I  thought  it,  which  I  don't ;  of  Grisi,  who 
though  she  came  to  us  after  her  perihelion  was  passed, 


The   Prima  Donnas.  313 

yet  had  voice  and  charms  and  genius  enough  left  to  show 
us  what  all  the  world  had  been  worshipping  so  long. 
And  now  we  have  Gassier,  who  sings  but  cannot  act, 
and  Gazzaniga,  who  acts  and  sings  with  superb  effect, 
and  indeed  I  would  rather  hear  her  than  any  one  now 
in  America. 

It  is  sad,  is  it  not,  to  recall  these  memories  of  pleasures 
that  are  past ;  to  think  of  all  the  different  women  so 
gifted,  so  beautiful,  so  graceful,  who  have  sung  on  the 
New  York  stage ;  to  think  of  the  various  theatres  where 
we  have  heard  them ;  the  Astor  Place,  the  Irving  Place, 
Niblo's  Garden  and  Castle  Garden,  the  Broadway  thea 
tre  and  Burton's  theatre;  the  halls  that  are  burned 
down,  the  others  where  paupers  and  hospital  patients 
now  congregate,  the  others  that  are  changed  into  tailors' 
shops  and  reading-rooms.  And  the  gay  and  brilliant 
audiences ;  the  gentle  belles,  the  blooming  matrons,  the 
distinguished  men  who  listened  and  looked  !  It  is  not 
well  to  think  too  much  of  pleasures  that  are  gone  ;  we 
shall  always  be  comparing  Malibran  with  Jenny  Lind. 
And  if  I,  a  young  Vagabond,  have  such  a  store  of  memo 
ries,  what  crowds  of  recollections  must  bewilder  the  old 
folk  who  have  visited  every  opera-house  in  Europe ;  who 
heard  such  a  singer  in  Madrid,  and  such  a  work  in  Ber 
lin  ;  who  were  at  the  debut  of  Bosio  in  St.  Petersburg, 
and  assisted  at  the  first  night  of  "  Le  Prophete"  in  Paris. 
'Tis  best,  I  say,  not  to  remember ;  I  will  stop  my  ears  to 
Bosio  when  I  listen  to  Gassier's  roulades ;  and  I  must 
shut  my  eyes  to  Grisi  when  I  look  on  Gazzaniga ;  and 
on  one  of  those  September  mornings,  forty  years  hence, 
which  I  hope  you  and  I  may  live  to  see,  perhaps  we'll 
get  out  our  memories,  and  talk  about  the  prima  donnas 

U 


314  The  Vagabond. 

who  sang  and  who  triumphed  in  New  York  so  many 
decades  ago.  Meanwhile,  we  shall  go  every  night  next 
week ;  there  is  music  to  be  heard.  Don't  stop  for  the 
recollections  of  Malibran  that  belong  to  others,  or  of 
Grisi  that  are  your  own. 


ROSSINI. 


'  Rarest  sounds, 
Do  ye  not  hear  ?" 

PERICLES. 


ROSSINI  is  not  the  favorite  composer  of  New  York  ; 
and,  indeed,  I  doubt  whether  his  star  has  not  paled  its 
fires  abroad :  they  tell  stories  in  Paris  about  his  jealousy 
of  Meyerbeer  ;  how  he  pretends  to  gape  while  he  listens 
to  "  The  Huguenots,"  and  falls  asleep  during  the  singing 
of  the  "  Ah,  mon  Fils."  But  the  old  man  need  not 
fear :  the  new  comers  have  their  glories,  it  is  true  ; 
Meyerbeer  reigns  in  Paris,  and  Verdi  is  triumphant  all 
over  Europe  and  America  ;  even  Italy  seems  for  a  while 
to  have  forgotten  the  times  when  Rossini  was  young  and 
beautiful,  as  well  as  a  genius ;  when  the  dio  della 
musica  was  the  adored  of  the  ladies  ;  when  the  masses 
he  composed  were  applauded  in  the  churches,  and 
the  priests  were  obliged  to  sing  the  litany  to  airs  in  his 
operas.  The  hey-day  of  his  fame  is  past,  his  beauty  is 
faded,  and  his  youth  for  ever  gone  ;  but  the  perennial 
charms  of  "  II  Barbiere  "  cannot  grow  old,  and  the  over 
ture  to  "  Guillaume  Tell "  must  last  while  men  have  ears 
to  hear  and  souls  to  appreciate  what  is  divine  in  music. 
Joachim  Rossini  is  secure  of  immortality. 

Even  now,  at  the  very  acme  of  the  popularity  which 


316  The   Vagabond. 

his  successors  have  attained,  while  the  "  Trovatore  "  is 
known  by  heart  to  those  who  walk  the  streets  without 
ever  going  to  the  opera ;  while  the  works  of  Meyerbeer 
crowd  the  Academy  of  Music  for  half  a  season  ;  even 
now  the  managers  of  two  different  theatres  in  New  York 
find  it  worth  their  while  to  bring  out  three  separate 
productions  of  Rossini.  In  a  city  where  no  opera  had 
ever  been  sung  when  the  master  was  supreme,  after  the 
lapse  of  nearly  half  a  century,  a  work  is  performed  that 
was  hissed  in  Italy  on  its  first  performance.  The  man 
who  should  think  of  hissing  the  "  Barber  of  Seville  " 
now,  would  be  thought  mad ;  but  the  most  delicious 
opera  that  ever  was  written  was  scarcely  endured  to  its 
close  by  Rossini's  own  countrymen.  Malibran  first  sang 
it  in  America,  and  every  singer  since  has  essayed  the 
brilliant,  sparkling  music  :  Grisi,  Alboni,  Sontag,  Bosio, 
La  Grange,  Gassier,  all  like  to  roll  the  liquid  sounds  of 
"Una  Voce,  Poco  Fa;"  all  are  glad  to  join  in  the  rapid 
"  Zitti-zitti ;"  all  are  anxious  to  repeat  the  delicate 
strains  of  the  "  Buona  Sera."  And,  sure  proof  that  the 
musical  education  of  our  public  is  improving,  we  all 
hasten  to  hear  the  "  Barber  "  and  the  "  Tell." 

"Guillaume  Tell,"  three  years  ago,  inaugurated  at 
the  Academy  of  Music  those  splendid  revivals  for  which 
the  establishment  has  since  become  famous,  and  I  recol 
lect  well  the  crowd  that  thronged  around  its  doors  on 
the  first  night  of  the  opera ;  no  more  brilliant  assemblage 
has  ever  been  seen  within  its  Avails  since,  often  as  they 
have  encircled  the  fashion  and  distinction  and  beauty 
of  the  land.  And  the  crowd  was  not  for  one  night 
only;  twelve  performances  were  given  in  succession 
before  New  York  was  satisfied  with  the  opera  that  some 


Rossini.  317 

people  call  heavy,  and  that  others  declare  is  not  appre 
ciated  here.  Last  week,  too,  when  "  Guillaume  Tell " 
was  again  in  the  bills,  the  audience  was  larger  than  it  had 
been  before  during  the  season ;  and  the  "  Stabat  Mater  " 
drew  at  Burton's  on  Sunday  as  crowded  an  assemblage 
as  either  Gazzaniga  or  Colson  in  her  favorite  role. 
Novelty  piques  the  public  taste,  and  intense  passion  ex 
cites  it,  and  Rossini  is  neither  new  nor  dramatic ;  but 
because  we  like  Verdi,  shall  we  forget  his  predecessor  ? 
Because  the  "Ernani  Involami"  is  exciting,  is  "Di 
Tanti  Palpiti  "  no  longer  exquisite  ? 

The  "  Barber,"  the  "  Stabat  Mater,"  the  "  Guillaume 
Tell,"  the  "Italiana  in  Algieri,"  " Cenerentola,"  "La 
Gazza  Ladra,"  "  Semiramide,"  "  Otello,"  "  Moise,"  what 
a  catalogue  of  splendors !  what  a  fecund  and  versatile 
genius  that  could  throw  off  such  varied  and  exquisite 
productions !  Delicious  and  delicate  melody,  exube 
rant  and  superb  ornamentation,  elaborate  science,  grand 
orchestral  and  choral  effects,  soft  and  flowing  strains  of 
such  a  subtle  charm,  that,  once  heard,  they  are  remem 
bered  for  ever ;  combinations  for  the  voice  such  as  few 
masters  have  been  able  to  rival,  and  an  intoxicating 
sweetness  that  is  all  his  own ;  these  traits  the  most  in 
veterate  unbeliever  cannot  deny  to  Rossini.  True,  he 
deals  not  so  largely  in  the  dramatic  element ;  he  has  not 
the  wild  intensity  of  Verdi,  nor  the  splendid  passion  of 
Donizetti ;  nothing  like  the  poisoning  duet  of  "  Lucre- 
zia  "  or  the  wail  of  the  "  Miserere  "  can  be  found  in  any 
of  his  works,  except  the  "Stabat  Mater."  The  occa 
sional  tragic  force  of  "  Otello "  is  transcended  by  the 
genius  of  his  successors,  and  the  fire  of  Arnoldi  in 
"  Guillaume  Tell "  is  not  equal  to  the  spirit  of  Manrico, 


318  The  Vagabond. 

and  is  besides  exceptional.  Rossini  does  not  seem  to 
be  one  of  the  emotional,  impulsive  natures,  who  feel  so 
deeply  themselves  and  are  half  mad  with  excitement 
until  their  agony  of  feeling  gets  utterance.  He  is  not 
full  of  the  turbulent  unrest  that  characterizes  much  of 
the  art  and  literature  of  this  age ;  he  does  not  possesi 
the  dramatic  faculty,  as  necessary  to  the  composer  as 
the  actor;  the  writer  as  the  singer;  he  cannot,  or  does 
not,  throw  himself  so  completely  into  the  individual 
whose  feelings  he  portrays ;  in  his  works  it  is  Rossini 
always  whose  influence  you  perceive :  it  is  a  delightful, 
charming  influence,  but  not  the  emotions  of  Semi- 
ramide  and  of  Tell;  he  is  descriptive  rather  than 
dramatic. 

The  "  Stabat  Mater,"  however,  forms  a  grand  excep 
tion  to  the  truth  of  this  remark  ;  here,  and  here  only,  in 
any  of  the  works  of  Rossini,  with  which  I  am  familiar, 
does  he  seem  full  of  passion  instead  of  sentiment ;  pro 
foundly  imbued  with  feeling  ;  at  all  dramatic.  Whether 
his  religious  feelings  are  deeper  than  any  other,  or 
whether  his  mind  or  temperament  was  particularly 
excited  when  he  wrote  the  oratorio,  certain  it  is  that 
there  is  a  splendid  earnestness,  a  magnificent  pathos 
and  sympathy  expressed  in  its  music  that  do  not  distin 
guish  his  other  works :  nothing  could  be  more  full  of 
sublimity  and  humanity  than  the  "  Pro  Peccatis," 
nothing  more  touching  than  the  "  Quis  est  Homo?" 
nothing  could  give  truer  utterance  to  the  emotions  indi 
cated  in  the  language  of  the  grand  old  Latin  hymn, 
more  religious  at  once  and  entirely  human,  fuller  of 
grief,  and  love,  and  adoration,  and  repentance  and  aspi 
ration,  than  the  "  Inflammatus.'' 


Rossini. 


But  no  other  music  of  Rossini  has  this  elan;  no 
other  lifts  you  out  of  yourself  ;  no  other  embodies  those 
undefined  yearnings,  those  lofty  aspirations  that  every 
body  has,  but  nobody  utters  ;  no  other  expresses  such 
profound  thought  as  Meyerbeer,  such  stirring  passion  as 
Donizetti  and  Verdi.  Rossini  rather  affects  the  grace 
ful,  the  charming,  the  bewitching.  He  reminds  you  of 
the  fairies  by  his  lightness,  his  brilliancy,  his  sweetness, 
his  subtle  fancy,  his  delicate  imagination,  his  indescriba 
ble  charm  ;  his  intoxicating  entrainement.  You  think 
of  Titania,  or  of  Undine  ;  of  mythology  in  all  its  weird 
and  graceful  forms  ;  of  moonlight,  of  Venice  ;  of  romance 
and  love,  but  not  love  of  the  intenser  sort  ;  intrigues 
in  Seville,  serenades,  harems  in  Algiers  ;  Cinderella  and 
her  godmother,  naughty  magpies,  nursery  tales  ;  or  gor 
geous,  barbaric  Semiramis,  with  her  pomp  of  music  and 
her  elaborate  overlay  of  feeling  with  florid  sound.  A 
souvenir  of  Rossini  is  a  pageant  of  music,  of  rolling,  flow 
ing  sounds  ;  music  for  flexible  and  clear,  pure  sopranos  ; 
no  need  for  your  passionate,  sympathetic  voices,  a  La 
Grange  makes  a  better  Rosina  than  a  Grisi  ;  music  for 
frolic  and  fun-loving  baritones,  for  Figaros  and  Bartolos  ; 
sometimes  a  splendid  Tell  joins  in  the  procession,  but  he 
is  scarcely  tender  even  wrhen  he  embraces  Albert,  and  is 
infinitely  finer  stirring  up  Arnoldi  to  patriotism,  than 
petting  his  darling  boy. 

But  when  Rossini  is  in  his  glory,  in  those  wonderful 
strains  of  the  "  Barber,"  in  the  music  that  some  people 
forget  to  listen  to,  of  the  finale  of  the  first  act,  because 
of  the  fun  and  bustle  of  the  stage  ;  in  the  prodigious 
ornamentation  of  the  "  Semiramide,"  involving  and 
overlaying  melody  with  strings  of  pearls  of  sound  ;  iu 


320  The  Vagabond. 

the  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable  sweetness  of  the 
"  Non  Piu  Mesta  ;"  in  the  Swiss  music  of  "  Tell,"  and 
the  ballet  of  the  same  opera ;  the  "  Di  Piacer"  of  "  La 
Gazza  Ladra,"  and  in  the  "  Di  Tanti  Palpiti,"  there  is 
more  of  pure  music  than  any  other  composer  ever 
lavished  on  the  world.  The  others  are  so  dramatic  that 
at  times  you  do  not  notice  how  bare  of  real  music  they 
often  are.  Many  of  their  scenes  are  splendid  instances 
of  declamation,  but  not  really  musical.  Now,  Rossini 
abounds  in  music,  "  pure  and  simple."  He  throws  away 
little  bits  of  melody;  he  scatters  ah1  over  his  works 
snatches  of  song  sufficient  to  make  the  fame  of  an  ordi 
nary  composer.  The  prodigality  with  which  they  are 
thrown  around  reminds  one  of  Eastern  princes  scatter 
ing  gold  and  perfumes ;  and,  indeed,  the  music  is  pre 
cious  as  gold,  and  subtle  as  perfume.  The  prince  of 
music,  too,  was  as  lavish  as  any  of  the  monarchs  in  the 
"  Arabian  Nights."  He  wrote  the  "  Barber"  in  thirteen 
days,  the  "  Cenerentola"  in  eighteen  ;  his  first  opera 
was  composed  before  he  was  twenty.  And  these  exqui 
site  strains  came  to  him  constantly  ;  his  brain  was  full 
of  "  Una  Voces"  and  "  Figaro  Sus  ;"  he  carried  a  paper 
in  his  pocket,  and  in  the  streets,  or  theatres,  or  salons, 
jotted  down  as  they  came  to  him  the  marvellous  rnelo' 
dies  that  still  enchant  the  world.  A  prince  of  some 
enchanted  story  indeed  he  seems ;  he  lets  you  into  a 
world  full  of  strange  delights ;  a  sort  of  eastern  tale  he 
tells ;  dreamy  pleasure  he  excites — as  real,  as  exquisite, 
as  subtle  pleasures  as  the  grander  strains  or  more  pas 
sionate  throbs  of  later  rivals. 


THE  MARRIED  BELLES. 

"What  says  the  married  womau?" 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

A  CELEBRATED  beauty  once  accused  me  of  preferring 
her  mother's  society  to  her  own  ;  she  declared  I  went  to 
their  receptions  and  talked  incessantly  with  mamma ; 
she  was  sure  of  my  penchant  for  married  women ;  and 
we  had  a  quarrel,  which  resulted,  of  course,  unfortunately 
for  me.  However,  the  beauty  is  married  now,  so  I  sup 
pose  I  may  be  re-admitted  to  favor.  Yet  I  am  not  en 
tirely  sure  that  the  jealous  spinster  was  wrong.  I  used, 
a  long  while  ago,  to  avow  an  open  preference  for  the 
mammas ;  but  that  was  when  I  was  very  young,  and  the 
girls  don't  like  boys,  while  women  un  peu  passee  are 
amazingly  flattered  by  the  attentions  of  very  young  men. 
It  puts  them  on  a  sort  of  equality ;  it  takes  off  from 
their  apparent  age.  I  remember  distinctly  that  I 
thought  I  made  myself  manly  by  avoiding  those  shal 
low,  simpering  maidens  (who  wouldn't  speak  to  me  be 
cause  I  wasn't  twenty  five) ;  I  looked  down,  or  tried  to, 
on  all  but  matured  women ;  my  society  was  not  such 
flirting,  romping  creatures  as  were  (like  myself,)  not  out 
of  their  teens,  but  splendid,  finely-formed,  elegantly- 
mannered  married  belles. 

I  outgrew  that  state  (it  wasn't  even  a  chrysalis  pe- 
14* 


322  The  Vagabond. 

riod  of  existence,  it  was  the  caterpillar  time  of  life),  and 
passed  into  the  mood  when  only  my  equals  in  age,  or 
those  slightly  younger,  delighted  my  fancy ;  it  was  still 
with  an  idea  of  seeming  old  that  I  put  on  a  blase  air, 
and  wanted  something  fresh.  I  had  seen  so  much,  for 
sooth,  that  one  of  the  young  things  "just  frae  her  mam 
my  "  was  a  relief  to  me,  the  man  of  the  world ;  I  looked 
down  graciously  on  the  innocent  artlessness  and  coquet 
tish  simplicity  of  the  juveniles,  and,  like  Rochester,  in 
"  Jane  Eyre,"  or  De  Sainville,  in  "  Nathalie,"  was  fasci 
nated  by  the  inexperience  and  naivete  so  different  from 
my  own  knowledge  of  the  world  and  my  natural  profun 
dity  and  penetration.  Since  those  days  I  have  had  some 
experience,  in  reality :  I  won't  pretend  to  say  how  much, 
but  enough  to  make  me  modest ;  to  show  me  that  the 
women,  married  and  unmarried,  all  know  what  they  are 
about  perfectly  well ;  that  they  are  born  to  command ; 
that  they  are  coquettes  at  sixteen,  and  able  to  combat 
even  then  with  a  finished  expert ;  that  I  in  particular  am 
a  fool,  and  they  in  general  are  wise  as  serpents  and  not 
harmless  as  doves. 

I  think  I  do  appreciate  married  belles,  however,  at 
least  as  well  as  their  younger  rivals.  I  certainly  have 
much  to  warrant  me  in  such  appreciation.  From  the 
days  of  Helen  of  Troy  the  married  women  have  borne 
the  palm.  Didn't  Paris  prefer  Venus  to  Minerva  ? 
Wasn't  Eve  married  when  the  devil  came  after  her  ? 
Didn't  Mary  of  Scotland  eclipse  Elizabeth  the  virgin  ? 
Don't  the  married  belles  rule  society  ?  Can't  they  go 
where  they  please,  receive  whom  they  please,  like  whom 
they  please,  make  whom  they  please,  and  mar  whom 
they  please  ?  Are  not  the  maids,  young  and  old,  trying 


The  Married  Belles. 

all,  as  hard  as  they  can,  to  be  married  ?  Isn't  it  the  aim 
and  object  of  the  young  belles  and  blues  and  wall-flowers 
to  reach  the  very  position  they  so  affect  to  despise  ?  That 
French  gallant  was  certainly  at  fault,  who  knew  not  after 
marriage  where  to  spend  his  evenings.  I  could  have  told 
him.  With  some  married  belle,  to  be  sure,  who  would 
find  a  flirtation  with  him  infinitely  more  piquant,  and 
his  attentions  infinitely  more  acceptable  because  they 
were  claimed  by  another.  Then  his  wife  would  not  be 
lonely;  all  the  beaux  would  crowd  around  her  in  her 
turn ;  he  need  not  have  hesitated  on  her  account  to  spend 
his  evenings  elsewhere.  They  manage  these  things  better 
in  France,  is  an  old  saying  ;  but  this  Frenchman  lacked 
the  national  quickness,  surely. 

The  married  belles!  oh,  yes!  I  confess  myself  an 
admirer.  I  know  many  mothers  whom  I  prefer  to  their 
daughters;  mothers  whose  charms  of  person  and  man 
ner  are  not  at  all  on  the  wane ;  whose  smile  is  no  less 
radiant,  whose  complexion  is  no  less  dazzling,  whose 
eye  is  to  the  full  as  speaking,  whose  movements  are  as 
graceful,  and  whose  fascinations  of  behavior  are  as  con 
stant  as  any  of  Mademoiselle.  I  can  think  of  half  a 
dozen  famous  belles,  whose  names  are  known  all  over 
the  country,  and  whose  perihelion  is  not  passed  because 
the  rubicon  of  marriage  has  been  crossed ;  belles  whose 
age  is  fabulous ;  the  outset  of  whose  career  is  lost  in 
the  mists  of  antiquity ;  who  were  belles  in  your  grand 
mother's  day ;  women  about  whom  the  last  generation 
used  to  talk,  and  the  next  generation  is  crowding  now 
to  pick  up  their  fans  and  fasten  their  bracelets.  Those 
wonderful  Washington  belles !  what  has  time  to  do  with 
them?  To  be  sure  they  paint  and  they  patch,  they 


324  The  Vagabond. 

powder  and  they  puff,  and  their  toilette  is  said  to  be  the 
work  of  a  day ;  a  work  of  art,  indeed  it  is ;  their  younger 
rivals  tell  all  sorts  of  stories  about  their  dressing-rooms, 
and  bribe  their  maids,  and  shrug  their  shoulders,  and 
speak  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  but  there  they  are ; 
the  revolutions  of  parties,  the  flight  of  years,  the  changes 
of  coteries  affect  them  not ;  each  successive  season  sees 
them  feted  and  followed ;  they  set  the  fashion  ;  they  have 
the  most  distinguished  men  in  the  country  at  their  feet, 
and  at  their  levees  ;  they  leave  whole  crowds  of  younger 
belles  behind  them  in  the  race. 

But  these  women  are  exceptions,  scarcely  to  be 
taken  into  account.  There  are  others  not  as  old  as 
Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  but  as  fascinating ;  women  who  boast 
of  having  been  queens  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  ;  who 
have  been  sought  after  at  half  the  courts  of  Europe, 
who  are  known  in  every  city  in  the  land,  and  when  they 
are  in  New  York  receive  a  hundred  visits  a  day,  yet 
retain  a  freshness  of  feeling,  a  youthful  enthusiasm  that 
some  girls  lose  in  their  first  season  ;  Avhose  hearts  are 
not  rendered  callous  by  adulation ;  whose  amiability 
is  not  lost  by  contact  with  the  world.  I  was  paying  a 
visit  last  week  to  one  of  these,  and  there  came  in,  the 
oldest  and  one  of  the  first  literary  men  in  America.  He 
had  not  met  the  lady  in  a  quarter  of  a  century,  but  he 
persisted  in  calling  her  by  her  Christian  name ;  he  told 
her  she  was  as  young  in  heart  as  she  was  still  in  appear 
ance  ;  he,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  a  man  nearly 
eighty,  repeated  his  visits  six  times  in  as  many  days,  and 
renewed  each  time  his  expressions  of  delight  at  the 
naturalness  and  heartiness  of  the  married  belle. 

Whether  it  is  that  the  married  women  know  what  a 


The  Married  Belles.  325 

wonderful  fascination  youth  possesses,  and  as  this  fadeg 
endeavor  by  graces  of  manner  to  atone  for  the  unavoid 
able  deficiency,  or  whether  experience  alone  brings  the 
charm  that  is  so  delightful,  I  don't  pretend  to  say,  but  the 
charm  exists.  Some  of  these  belles  are  not  women  of 
talent ;  some  are  inordinately  vain,  and  some  are  ex 
ceedingly  shallow ;  some  whose  sway  is  universally  ac 
knowledged,  stumble  at  times  in  their  English,  to  say 
nothing  at  all  of  French ;  some  have  a  reputation  for 
cleverness  that  they  don't  at  all  deserve,  but  which  no 
body  takes  the  trouble  to  contradict;  some  are  weari 
some  in  exacting  adulation,  and  others  make  the  most 
exorbitant  demands  on  the  time  and  the  labors  of  their 
admirers;  send  you  on  fearfully  long  errands,  and  re 
quire  fearfully  expensive  compliments  ;  ask  outright  for 
them,  too.  But  for  all,  there  is  an  attractiveness  that  I 
confess  I  often  find  irresistible  while  it  lasts. 

Then  there  are  the  young  married  belles.  These  have 
the  advantage  ;  they  have  the  freedom,  the  ease,  the  po 
sition  which  marriage  confers  ;  they  can  go  out  with  the 
beaux  ;  they  can  receive  as  much  homage  as  you  choose 
to  pay  ;  they  have  all  the  prerogatives  of  one  condition, 
and  lose  none  that  belong  to  the  other.  Their  beauty 
has  not  faded,  but  seems  often  to  receive  an  enhance 
ment  ;  their  manner  is  more  bewitching,  their  accom 
plishments  are  more  engaging,  their  society  is  more 
piquant.  After  the  first  year  of  married  life  is  over,  and 
the  honeymoon,  if  there  was  any,  is  past ;  when  Ma 
dame  begins  to  weary  of  one  slave,  and  to  long  for  that 
universal  sceptre  which  she  knows  is  her  right ;  when 
the  lover  subsides  into  the  husband,  and  the  beauty  sees 
no  sign  in  her  glass  that  she  is  subsiding  into  the  wife, 


326  The  Vagabond. 

then  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  charms;  then  she 
comes  forth  in  state,  a  queen — Juno,  not  Venus  ;  and 
the  men  must  beware.  She  knows  how  they  may  be 
won,  how  they  may  be  conquered  ;  she  has  learned  to 
teaze  and  to  trifle,  to  invite  and  to  repel,  to  charm  like  the 
serpent  in  spite  of  resistance,  to  subdue,  to  trample,  and 
to  sting ;  she  can  be  imperious  or  indulgent,  implacable 
or  pliant,  enticing,  complaining,  mocking,  earnest,  fickle, 
what  she  will.  There  is  yet  no  sense  of  waning  powers 
to  sour  her  temper  or  sharpen  her  features  ;  there  is  no 
anxiety  for  success  to  render  her  too  empressee ;  there  is 
no  absorbing  passion  to  swallow  up  all  her  thoughts, 
and  feelings,  and  fancies,  and  render  her  unconscious  of 
everybody  in  the  world  but  one  :  she  is  not  in  love ;  or 
if  she  is,  she  don't  deserve  to  be,  and  is  not  a  belle ;  she 
is  only  flirting,  or  playing,  or  coquetting,  or  not  even 
these :  she  is  enjoying  her  triumphs — 

"  Cui  in  maim  sit  quern  esse  dementem  velit, 
Quern  sapere,  quern  sanari,  quern  in  morbum  injici, 
Quern  contra  amari,  quern  accersiri." 


BOSTON. 

"  I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings, 
And  then  return,  and  sleep  within  mine  inn." 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

BOSTON  was  not  entirely  new  to  me  a  fortnight  ago, 
when  I  applied  to  myself  the  language  of  Dromio's 
master,  and  set  out  to  deliver  my  letters — not  exclu 
sively  to  "traders."  I  had  "gazed  upon  the  buildings" 
before.  I  had  seen  the  Common  and  the  State  House ; 
had  visited  Faneuil  Hall,  and  Mount  Auburn,  and  was 
not  liable  to  be  lost,  even  in  the  defiles  around  Court 
street,  or  the  labyrinth  of  lanes  leading  out  from  Tre- 
mont  Row.  But  I  had  not  "viewed  the  manners  of  the 
town ;"  I  had  not  seen  the  people  at  home  ;  I  had  not 
mixed  in  those  circles  reputed  so  blue  and  so  frigid,  so 
learned  and  so  formal,  that  southerners  proclaim  pedan 
tic,  and  foreigners  call  the  most  delightful  in  America. 
So  all  was  strange  and  interesting  to  one  with  the  pro 
pensities  of  a  Vagabond — curious,  ever  anxious  to  see 
and  hear  some  new  thing,  ready  to  go  whithersoever  any 
one  would  take  him,  to  know  whomsoever  he  should 
chance  to  meet,  to  experience  whatsoever  should  be  pre 
sented  to  his  eager  apprehension. 

A  New  Yorker  may  be  either  the  best  calculated  per 
son  in  the  world  to  enjoy  and  appreciate  Boston,  or  the 


328  The  Vagabond. 

worst.  Coming  from  the  hurly-hurly  of  the  metropolis, 
from  the  whirl  and  confusion  of  its  streets  and  its  opera, 
from  the  splendor  of  its  Fifth  avenue  dinners  and  the 
intensity  of  its  Wall  street  life,  from  the  excitement  of 
its  politics  and  the  glare  of  its  hotels,  the  crowding  and 
jostling  of  its  entire  life,  he  may  find  Boston  tame  and 
insipid  by  comparison.  He  may  hanker  after  the  bril 
liant  shops,  the  excited  population,  the  hurry  of  busi 
ness,  and  the  rush  after  pleasure  that  he  has  left  behind. 
He  may  call  the  Bostonians  stiff  and  precise ;  he  may 
find  a  lack  of  life,  or  fancy  that  he  detects  a  narrowness 
of  feeling,  a  provinciality  of  tone  in  their  society ;  he 
may  long  for  the  cosmopolitan  influences  of  New  York. 
And,  indeed,  there  is  all  the  difference  between  the  two 
cities  that  there  is  between  a  capital  and  a  smaller  town. 
The  attrition  produced  by  contact  with  so  many  minds 
of  such  various  degrees  of  talent  and  culture  ;  the 
humanizing  effect  of  a  world  where  none  lead,  where 
no  one  circle  is  absolutely  first,  where  neither  politicians, 
nor  men  of  letters,  nor  artists,  nor  merchants,  nor 
religious  people  give  the  tone,  but  where  all  are  fused 
into  one  grand  whole ;  the  influence  of  so  many  influ 
ences,  the  result  of  so  many  combinations,  the  enlarg 
ing  of  the  mind,  the  sharpening  of  the  faculties,  the 
quickening  of  the  wits;  the  readiness  for  emergencies, 
whether  of  actual  life  or  of  social  repartee ;  the  confusion 
Avhich  yet,  like  the  colors  in  a  kaleidoscope,  becomes 
harmonious — in  a  word,  the  great  life  of  the  world,  all 
this  distinguishes  New  York  ;  gives  it  its  attraction,  its 
fascination  for  natures  fitted  for  life  and  actualities;  and 
indeed  draws  within  its  influences  and  assimilates  in 
character  and  taste  even  those  of  different  temperament, 


Boston.  329 

who  are  placed  at  all  near  the  maelstrom.  If  the  outer 
most  eddy  reaches  them,  they  are  sure  to  be  caught  ere 
long  in  the  maddest  circle  of  the  whirlpool.  Besides  this, 
the  outward  splendor,  the  gaiety,  the  prancing,  dancing 
life,  with  the  loud  accompaniments  of  inspiring  music 
intoxicates  ?  and  one  procession  comes  so  quickly  after 
another,  one  draught  is  put  to  the  lips  so  soon  after  the 
first  is  drained,  that  you  have  no  time  to  clear  your  eyes 
or  your  head ;  you  live  in  an  entrainement.  Some,  it  is 
true,  weary  of  the  whirl,  but  'tis  only  those  who  are  not 
used  to  it ;  the  confusion  soon  ceases  to  stun,  and  only 
excites ;  and  those  who  at  first  were  anxious  to  get  out 
of  the  uproar,  soon  find  its  exhilaration  necessary  to 
their  existence. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  such  find  a  comparatively 
small  and  quiet  place  like  Boston  uninteresting.  And, 
indeed,  to  one  who  should  go  thither  and  see  nothing  of 
its  people,  I  imagine  the  city  would  soon  prove  insipid. 
The  shops,  and  shows  and  streets,  are  dull  after  the 
pageantry  of  Broadway  and  of  Stewart's,  and  the 
throngs  who  go  to  see  Piccolomini.  But  to  one  who 
obtains  access  to  the  delightful  society  to  be  found  in 
Boston,  who  finds  his  way  among  the  people  of  high 
culture,  of  refined  taste  and  real  talent,  who  are  the 
leaders  and  controllers  there,  I  can  imagine  nothing 
tame.  The  peculiarity  of  the  intellectual  people  there 
is,  not,  perhaps,  that  they  are  more  intellectual  than  the 
literary  men  and  women  here,  but  that  they  have  more 
influence.  Mind  and  education  are  better  appreciated ; 
here  it  is  talent  and  tact,  and,  above  all,  success  that 
sways.  Not  wealth,  as  so  many  say  and  think,  but 
success  in  almost  any  department  of  life,  is  the  passport 


330  The   Vagabond. 

to  our  society,  the  touchstone  to  all  men's  admiration  in 
]STe\v  York.  In  Boston,  intellect  has  the  same  influence ; 
here,  a  man  may  have  an  immensity  of  genius,  and  if  he 
does  nothing  with  it,  if  there  is  no  result  attained,  to 
prove  its  possession,  it  does  him  little  service.  Here, 
too,  there  are  perhaps  as  many  cultivated' people  as  in 
Boston,  but  they  are  lost  in  the  crowd ;  they  do  not 
lead  ;  they  are  only  one  component  part  of  the  great 
whole.  In  Boston  they  govern  ;  their  influence  is  seen 
and  felt  in  society,  in  the  newspapers,  in  State  street, 
in  the  theatre,  in  the  churches,  at  Mount  Auburn,  every 
where.  Boston  is  essentially  an  intellectual  place.  Not 
having  the  same  themes  of  actual  life  and  business  to 
engage  their  attention,  or  at  least  not  so  many  of  them, 
the  Bostonians  turn  their  minds  more  to  abstract  topics  ; 
they  discuss  such  more  fully  and  more  often  ;  they  live 
more  with  books  and  with  the  past,  than  we  men  of  the 
world  and  of  the  present. 

How  few  houses  in  New  York  could  one  enter,  as 
I  did  one  in  Boston,  and  find  the  entire  conversation 
for  a  long  and  delightful  evening  confined  to  subjects 
connected  with  literature  and  art ;  persons,  except  as 
regards  their  genius  or  their  talent,  scarcely  mentioned ; 
events  not  so  much  discussed  as  causes  ;  generalities, 
not  individual  cases  considered  ;  and  a  general  tone 
given  to  the  party  that  marked  at  once  the  highest 
culture  and  the  most  refined  taste.  And  yet  as  many 
women  as  men  were  present ;  young  and  pretty  women, 
too  ;  well  dressed  and  who  wore  fine  diamonds  and 
appreciated  the  charms  of  the  toilette ;  but  I  saw  none 
of  the  vanities  and  flirtings  that  make  up  an  evening  in 
New  York.  People  absolutely  forgot  themselves,  and 


Boston.  331 

talked  for  the  sake  of  exchanging  ideas.  Of  course, 
ideas  were  then  struck  out  fast  and  brilliant ;  wit,  and 
geniality,  and  anecdote  enlivened  the  oftentimes  pro 
found  and  original  veins  of  thought ;  poets  said  nonsen 
sical  things,  and  men  with  famous  names  were  not 
anxious  always  to  maintain  their  reputation. 

And  this  not  at  one  house  alone ;  at  a  dozen  houses  I 
met  the  same  sort  of  people,  and  heard  the  same  sort 
of  talk.  I  doubt  if  you  would  at  a  dozen  houses  in 
New  York.  All  this  does  undoubtedly  give  a  greater 
air  of  refinement  to  Boston  society  than  is  often  seen 
in  New  York ;  the  people  are  not  so  brilliant  in  manner, 
are  not  so  ready,  so  more  than  ready,  nor  are  they  so 
empresse  ;  the  eagerness,  the  hurry,  the  splendor  so 
often  verging  upon  ostentation,  the  brilliancy  that  so 
often  is  false,  the  parade  that  is,  alas  !  sometimes  vulgar, 
in  New  York,  these  the  Bostonians  have  not ;  but  quiet 
elegance,  or,  if  not  superlative  elegance,  yet  perfect  and 
well-bred  ease.  I  saw  no  stiifness  among  those  who,  in 
the  same  station  elsewhere,  would  be  expected  to  be  at 
ease  ;  I  found  no  frigidity  to  complain  of;  I  confess  I 
often  said  to  myself:  "This  is  almost  better  than  New 
York."  I  was  glad  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  cul 
ture  ;  I  was  glad  to  be  among  people  who  thought 
before  they  talked,  and  not  only  at  the  same  moment ; 
I  was  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  myself  to  think,  to 
rest  from  the  turmoil  of  the  life  NCAV  Yorkers  lead.  I 
was  glad  to  find  people  who  get  time  to  read ;  who  will 
discuss,  and  not  think  it  pedantic,  books  absolutely  a 
hundred  years  old  ;  who  talk  of  historical  topics  not 
actually  suggested  by  some  occurrence  of  to-day ;  who 
are  interested  in  themes  not  altogether  present.  I  con 
fess  I  felt  ashamed  in  this  society  to  remember  how  lit- 


332  The  Vagabond. 

tie  time  one  finds  here  for  study  and  reflection ;  how 
soon  the  taste  for  it  subsides  ;  how  soon  you  forget  to 
reproach  yourself  for  neglecting  the  inner  culture  ;  how 
absolutely  we  live  for  the  senses  and  the  outside  :  we 
refine,  it  is  true,  but  we  are  sensualists  still. 

The  difference  in  this  very  respect  is  apparent  in  the 
theatre.  We  go  to  the  opera,  and  in  the  delights1 
addressed  to  eye  and  ear,  in  the  pageantry  of  the  stage 
and  the  intoxication  of  sweet  sounds,  or  even  in  the 
excitement  that  great  music  produces,  there  is  not  often 
any  intellectual  pleasure.  The  Bostonians  appreciate 
music,  too,  but  do  not  therefore  undervalue  the  theatre. 
The  most  cultivated  and  talented  people  there  make  it 
their  duty  to  support  the  drama,  as  a  means  of  elevating 
and  sustaining  their  own  culture  and  taste,  and  that  of 
the  community.  They  listen  to  a  play  as  carefully  as 
they  would  read  a  poem  or  study  a  picture.  And  they 
look  upon  players  differently  ;  they  regard  an  actor  of 
ability  as  a  man  of  talent  or  genius,  and  receive  him  into 
their  houses;  he  has  shown  that  be  has  mind,  and  is 
therefore  their  equal ;  he  is  an  artist,  and  they  reverence 
art  and  welcome  its  professors.  Art  is  not  with  them 
solely  an  amusement ;  and  they  strive  to  elevate  it  by 
acknowledging,  so  long  as  they  are  worthy  of  acknow 
ledgment,  those  who  practise  it.  I  knew  of  a  sympo 
sium  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  first  women  in  Boston, 
whose  name  is  as  familiar  here  as  there,  where  poets  of 
European  reputation,  wits,  and  scholars,  and  critics  and 
statesmen  were  invited  solely  to  meet  an  actor ;  a  man 
of  rare  and  exquisite  genius,  and  so  a  most  desirable 
acquaintance  for  such  as  these.  That  man  has  been  in 
New  York,  but  I  never  heard  of  a  party  being  offered 
him,  except  by  a  Vagabond. 


THE  PREACHERS. 


"  What,  art  thou  devout  ?    "Wast  thou  at  prayer  ?" 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 


WITH  no  class  of  men  is  the  professional  uniform 
more  significant  of  a  sameness  in  character  than  with 
those  who  wear  the  gown.  The  fact  that  some  denomi 
nations  prefer  black  coat  and  white  cravat  to  floAving 
robes  and  graceful  scarfs,  by  no  means  excludes  the 
plainer  preacher  from  the  criticism ;  on  the  contrary, 
the  strictness  with  which  the  etiquette  of  dress  is  ob 
served  by  the  clergy  generally,  is  quite  emblematic  of 
the  ordinary  evenness  of  their  minds  and  almost  univer 
sal  tediousness  of  their  sermons.  Here  and  there,  it  is 
true,  in  a  procession  of  priests  or  soldiers,  you  may  see 
one  conspicuous  above  his  fellows,  whose  form  the  garb 
sanctioned  by  custom  shall  set  off  to  unusual  advantage, 
and  the  folds  of  canonical  drapery  or  the  strait-laced 
military  suit  serve  only  to  display  his  natural  grace  or 
manliness ;  but  ordinarily,  it  is  the  surplices  and  epau 
lets  that  attract  attention,  not  the  individual  men.  So 
in  glancing  over  the  crowd  of  preachers  in  New  York, 
one  is  surprised  to  find  the  same  traits  belonging  to  so 
many,  the  same  remarks  applicable  to  nearly  all.  The 
list  of  those  pre-eminent  for  talent  or  attainment  is  soon 
exhausted.  They  sing  the  same  tunes  in  nearly  all  the 


334  The  Vagabond. 

churches,  though  set  to  different  words.  However,  one 
man  shall  play  "  Old  Hundred"  so  that  you  fancy  you 
never  heard  it  before,  and  another  read  the  Litany  in  a 
manner  that  makes  you  discover  new  beauties  in  a  com 
position  familiar  to  you  from  your  cradle. 

I  weary  soon  of  listening  to  platitudes ;  I  have  but 
slight  respect  for  insipid  sermons ;  I  will  not  go  to  hear 
him  who  preaches  in  the  finest  of  churches  and  to  the 
most  fashionable  of  congregations,  if  his  voice  is  disagree 
able,  or  his  style  slipshod,  or  his  matter  commonplace. 
And  we  have  all  been  preached  to  so  long,  we  have 
heard  the  same  things  said  so  often,  that  it  requires  a 
man  of  more  than  ordinary  ability  to  interest  his  hear 
ers.  The  most  devout  attendants  fall  at  times  to  count 
ing  the  panes  of  glass,  or  criticising  their  neighbors' 
dress.  What  then  is  to  be  expected  of  vagabonds? 
But  there  are  men  who  never  allow  you  to  go  to  sleep, 
who  never  fail  to  enlist  the  attention  of  the  most  care 
less,  who  are  sure  to  interest  the  most  indifferent.  Of 
this  class  is  Dr.  Hawks. 

His  taste  has  attained  that  degree  of  perfection,  than 
which  there  is  none  higher,  which  prefers  simplicity  to 
ornate  rhetoric ;  and  though  he  has  at  his  command  the 
most  elaborate  and  splendid  eloquence,  he  is  chary  of  its 
display,  so  that  when  the  finest  touches  are  introduced, 
it  is  always  with  the  greater  effect  from  their  infrc- 
quency.  Many  a  man  with  his  gifts  would  be  constantly 
obtruding  them  upon  us,  till  weariness  and  disgust 
would  greet  the  oft-recurring  simile  and  never-ending 
declamation ;  lont  the  wiser  scholar  makes  us  always 
wish  for  more.  His  rhetoric  is  only  the  cap-stone  of  his 
oratory,  a  crowning  grace  superadded  to  more  solid  ad- 


The  Preachers. 


335 


vantages.  Unlike  most  orators,  he  begins  with  logic ; 
carefully-considered,  well-digested  thoughts  are  wrought 
up  in  perspicuous  English,  symmetrically  and  lucidly 
arranged.  His  studies  are  apparent  from  their  general 
effect,  from  the  chastened  tone  pervading  all  his  efforts, 
and  the  ripened  character  of  his  productions,  rather  than 
from  any  parade  of  allusion  or  quotation.  Neither  the 
crowded  imagery  of  Jeremy  Taylor  nor  the  sounding 
declamation  of  the  great  French  preachers  characterizes 
the  most  accomplished  pulpit  orator  of  New  York ;  but 
rather  a  Ciceronian  elegance  and  force.  Everything  is 
excellent,  but  no  effort  is  visible ;  the  finish  is  every 
where  apparent,  but  it  is  the  care  that  the  sculptor  be 
stows  in  rounding  the  form  and  giving  the  last  touch  to 
Hebe  or  Apollo,  not  the  adorning  of  the  tailor,  though 
he  dresses  his  block  in  coronation  robes. 

What,  however,  more  than  the  absence  of  florid 
embellishment,  probably  surprises  those  who  hear  Dr. 
Hawks  for  the  first  time,  is  the  comparatively  unimpas- 
sioned  nature  of  his  discourses,  and  the  careful  reason 
ing  that  marks  them.  He  certainly  is  not  celebrated  for 
his  argumentative  powers,  yet  these  really  distinguish 
him  as  much  as  any  showier  qualities,  and  are  full  as 
carefully  cultivated.  The  admirable  arrangement  and 
beautiful  progression  of  his  ideas,  are  also  remarkable  ; 
each  thought  is  in  its  proper  place  and  assigned  its  due 
importance.  The  rules  of  the  masters  in  logic  and  rhe 
toric  are  scrupulously  observed;  the  orator  first  con 
vinces,  then  pleases,  and  then,  perhaps,  persuades. 

But  his  rhetoric,  though  sparingly  used,  is  not  forgot 
ten.  When  the  proper  moment  arrives,  it  is  introduced 
in  the  most  felicitous  manner,  and  with  the  most  felici- 


336  The  Vagabond. 

tous  result.  The  perorations,  especially,  of  his  sermons 
are  remarkable  for  splendid  effects  of  oratory.  In  fact, 
throughout  you  feel  that  you  are  listening  to  a  master 
of  his  art.  The  care  that  has  been  bestowed  upon  his 
efforts  is  the  more  manifest,  the  more  you  examine  them 
or  the  closer  attention  you  pay.  But  this  very  perfec 
tion  inevitably  suggests  an  idea  of  the  labor  and  study 
that  must  have  conspired  to  attain  such  perfection. 
The  very  grace  of  elocution  reminds  one  of  Bossuet, 
who  was  said  to  visit  the  theatre  nightly  in  order  to 
model  himself  in  the  best  schools  of  delivery. 

Dr.  Hawks  impresses  you  as  an  elegant  and  eloquent 
man,  whom  robes  become,  who  reads  the  liturgy  with 
exquisite  grace  and  meaning,  who  is  imbued  with  the 
learning  of  his  profession,  and  knows  how  to  use  it 
well.  But  he  does  not  impress  you  as  a  man  deeply  in 
earnest  to  convert  his  fellows.  His  thoughts  and  ener 
gies  seem  directed  to  the  elaboration  of  his  subject  as  a 
literary  theme,  towards  accomplishing  perfection  in 
diction  and  gesture,  rather  than  to  urging  upon  his 
hearers  the  awful  importance  to  them  of  what  he 
preaches.  So  his  reading,  though  in  accordance  with 
every  suggestion  of  the  most  cultivated  taste,  lacks  the 
unction  that  plainer  men  can  infuse  into  the  language 
of  the  Prayer  Book,  and  his  preaching  has  everything 
but  soul.  He  is  a  Paul  without  his  inspiration  ;  a  Chry- 
sostom  without  his  sacred  fervor.  Whoever  desires  an 
intellectual  entertainment  of  the  highest  order,  can  be 
gratified  by  one  of  Dr.  Hawks's  highly-finished  dis 
courses  ;  whoever  seeks  a  soul-stirring  utterance  of 
vital  truths,  an  energetic  preaching  such  as  sends  you 
home  uneasy  and  thoughtful,  must  seek  for  it  elsewhere. 


The   Preachers  337 

He  fights  with  earthly  weapons,  well  tempered  and 
polished  ;  but  that  one  sharper  than  a  two-edged  sword 
is  reserved  for  other  hands.  He  ministers  in  the  outer 
courts  in  sumptuous  robes,  but  never  enters  barefoot  the 
holy  of  holies  :  his  services  are  the  rich  man's  offering 
at  the  treasury,  which  a  widow's  mite  shah1  outweigh. 

An  orator,  a  preacher  more  diametrically  opposite  to 
him  than  Dr.  Tyng  it  is  impossible  to  imagine.  Earnest, 
energetic,  impassioned  ;  full  of  his  subject,  forgetful  of 
himself;  anxious  to  persuade  rather  than  to  convince  his 
hearers  ;  careless  of  style  and  manner,  except  as  they 
may  conduce  to  his  great  end — still,  his  absolute  since 
rity,  the  feeling  with  which  he  utters  his  convictions 
makes  him  always  interesting.  His  own  warmth  affects 
his  audience.  Though  he  does  not  possess  the  sympa 
thetic  quality,  the  magnetic  influence  of  voice  and  eye 
that  some  great  orators  wield,  he  lacks  no  other  essen 
tial  of  eloquence.  An  extended  command  of  language, 
correct,  nervous,  terse  ;  an  abundant  stock  of  images, 
apt  and  forcible  though  not  remarkable  for  elegance  ; 
a  style  not  brilliant  nor  studied,  but  direct  and  telling ; 
a  manner  simple  but  animated  ;  these  distinguish  Dr. 
Tyng.  His  appearance  is  in  his  favor.  In  the  pulpit  he 
looks  like  a  Knox  or  a  Luther,  preaching  doctrines,  per 
haps  distasteful,  but  which  he  does  not  for  that,  attempt 
to  sweeten  or  disguise :  his  figure  is  tall,  his  attitudes 
fine,  and  his  lively  gesticulation  is  seen  to  excellent 
advantage  in  his  own  pulpit,  w^hich  is  so  constructed 
that  the  speaker's  whole  person  is  frequently  conspicu 
ous.  As  he  walks  rapidly  from  one  side  of  the  platform 
to  the  other,  and  throws  up  his  arms  or  brings  them 
down  forcibly  and  repeatedly,  as  if  hammering  an  argu- 

15 


338  The  Vagabond. 

raent,  the  folds  of  his  drapery  cling  to  his  form,  and  fol 
low  the  varying  outlines  of  his  person,  always  clothing 
him  with  dignity,  if  not  with  grace. 

He  cares  not  to  tickle  the  ear  with  sweet  sounds  and 
rounded  periods,  though  he  seldom  offends  it  by  abrupt 
readings  or  inharmonious  language.  He  is  not  anxious 
to  gratify  a  fastidious  taste  with  pretty  conceits  and 
fanciful  similes,  yet  a  correct  one  can  seldom  object  or 
fail  to  be  pleased.  He  does  not  search  for  novel  ideas 
nor  indulge  in  elegant  meditations,  but  brings  argument 
upon  argument,  simile  after  simile,  word  after  word,  one 
upon  the  other,  and  drives  the  nail  right  home.  You 
cannot  go  to  sleep  under  his  preaching.  His  voice  is 
harsh  and  grating  at  times,  but  well-managed ;  his 
inflections  being  invariably  admirable.  Those  who  are 
close  observers  are  aware  of  the  vast  importance  of  this 
last ;  a  careless  or  ignorant  speaker  inflicts  more  pain  on 
a  cultivated  ear  by  his  neglect  or  violation  of  the  rules 
of  inflection  than  by  any  other  means.  It  is  a  delight  to 
hear  Dr.  Tyng  on  this  one  account. 

He  is  doctrinal ;  that  is,  he  preaches  what  he  believes, 
he  explains  and  applies  it ;  but  he  is  not  really  argumen 
tative.  He  does  not  reason  from  causes,  but  from 
effects.  He  is  not  profoundly  learned,  and  is  remarka 
ble  rather  for  vigor  than  for  originality  or  depth  of 
thought,  and  would  not,  perhaps,  affect  a  scholar  so 
quickly  as  a  man  of  the  world.  His  reasoning  is  clinch 
ing  :  he  rather  overcomes  an  argument  than  removes  it. 
He  cannot  dispel  doubt,  nor  enlighten  a  dark  mind, 
lie  does  not  answer  the  inquiries  of  a  thoughtful  and 
speculative  man  ;  but,  at  the  time,  he  overwhelms  all 
opposition.  He  pours  out  such  a  torrent  of  words,  and 


The  Preachers.  339 

so  amplifies  or  repeats  an  idea  that  you  think  it  must 
have  force. 

He  preaches  the  old  orthodox  matter  in  the  old 
orthodox  way.  If  you  have  new-fangled  ideas,  he 
knows  nothing  of  such.  He  cannot  handle  a  new 
disease  or  a  delicate  patient ;  if  the  right  hand  offends 
him,  he  is  for  cutting  it  off;  if  the  right  eye  offends  him, 
he  would  pluck  it  out.  He  deals  in  no  metaphysical 
niceties,  no  refinements  of  sentiment  or  expression.  He 
has  no  charity  for  anything  or  anybody.  Believe  and  be 
saved,  refuse  and  be  damned ;  aut  Ccesar  out  nullus  / 
no  rendering  to  CaBsar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's,  and 
to  God  the  things  that  are  God's.  Ye  cannot  serve  two 
masters.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  is  a  Calvinist :  he 
would  have  been  a  Puritan  had  he  lived  in  the  time  of 
the  Commonwealth  ;  fought  and  prayed  like  Balfour  of 
Burley ;  a  true  Saul  of  Tarsus  breathing  out  threaten- 
ings  and  slaughter,  or  a  Paul  preaching  with  the  same 
ardor  with  which  he  had  persecuted  ;  a  martyr,  if  it 
were  necessary,  to  die  at  the  stake,  or  if  lie  Avere  an 
inquisitor,  would  burn  the  heretics  with  right  good  will. 
He  is  of  such  stuff  as  those  are  made  of  who  govern  the 
world. 


PICCOLOMINI. 

"  Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift, 
And  yet  enrich'd  it  too." 

Cymbeline. 

PICCOLOMINI  fascinated  me  directly;  so  those  who  want 
a  calm  and  dispassionate  criticism  must  look  to  some 
other  Vagabond.  I  shan't  pretend  to  write  one.  I 
know,  indeed,  that  the  new  prima  donna  has  not  as 
much  voice  as  Jenny  Lind,  nor  as  much  execution  as 
La  Grange  ;  I  have  been  sorry  for  her  when  she  was 
singing  the  "  Brindisi,"  in  "  La  Traviata,"  and  sorry  for 
myself  when  she  came  to  the  "  Gran  Dio  ;"  but  never 
theless  I  like  her.  I  liked  her  before  she  had  sung  at  all. 
Didn't  you  ?  I  paid  her  a  visit,  on  the  Sunday  after  her 
arrival,  in  company  with  a  fine  lady,  who  persisted  in 
sending  up  her  card,  though  the  servant  declared  Picco- 
lomini  was  at  breakfast  or  at  church ;  but  the  card  would 
be  sufficient  in  most  houses  here,  or  elsewhere,  to  secure 
its  owner  admission,  and  it  brought  the  Princess  Picco- 
lomini  down  stairs  forthwith.  She  looked  charming  and 
eager ;  my  friend  spoke  to  her  in  Italian  ;  and  these  were 
the  first  words  spoken  to  the  stranger  in  her  native 
tongue  by  an  American  ;  this  was  the  first  visit  she  had 
received,  and  she  accepted  the  omen  for  good.  Her  face 
lighted  up,  as  few  faces  can,  at  the  familiar  sounds,  and 


Piccolomini. 


341 


the  two  handsome  women  kissed  each  other  with  hearty 
good  will.  I  was  prejudiced  immediately:  (tantalized 
too.  The  wicked  king  in  Hades  had  the  good  things  very 
near  his  lips,  you  know,  but  couldn't  reach  'em.) 

Piccolomini  was  as  frank  and  as  natural  as  you  would 
suppose ;  she  told  how  anxious  she  was ;  how  she  had 
often  and  always  longed  to  see  America ;  how,  now  she 
was  arrived,  her  fears  were  great  lest  she  might  not  suc 
ceed.  I  saw  her  again,  on  the  day  before  her  debut ;  it 
was  at  rehearsal ;  when  I  entered  the  auditorium,  she 
was  singing  in  the  second  act  of  "  La  Traviata ;"  crying 
and  sobbing  away  in  tune  and  time:  she  wore  a  walking 
dress,  and  her  pretty  little  hands,  "  pretty  because  little" 
— as  Moth  says  in  "  Love's  Labor  Lost," — were  cased  in 
dark  gloves ;  her  attire  was  not  at  all  calculated  to  make 
her  or  any  one  else  forget  Piccolomini  in  Violetta ;  but 
her  form  was  full  of  action,  and  her  voice  full  of  feeling ; 
she  wrung  those  little  kidded  hands  in  bitter  angxiish, 
and  cried  as  earnestly  as  if  she  were  indeed  losing  one 
lover,  instead  of  gaining  a  thousand  ;  two  or  three 
chorus  singers  (women)  sat  behind  me  in  the  parquet, 
and  fell  a  crying  too :  then  they  poked  fun  at  each  other 
for  being  so  foolish,  and  at  a  rehearsal !  but  I  thought 
to  myself  what  a  triumph  was  this,  to  force  the  very 
chorus  singers  to  wipe  their  eyes.  So  I  went  on  the 
stage  after  the  scene,  and  complimented  the  singer.  She 
was  more  nervous  than  ever ;  asked  eagerly  about  the 
people  out-doors;  whether  the  house- would  be  full;  if 
the  feeling  towards  her  was  kindly ;  thanked  me  earnestly 
for  my  good  wishes  ;  and  as  I  left,  held  out  that  same 
little  hand,  and  cried,  "  Merci  cette  visite !"  And  what 
do  you  think  I  did  to  the  hand  ? 


342  The  Vagabond. 

And  how  pretty  she  looked  the  next  night ;  how  she 
gazed  around  at  the  great  house,  that  never  looked  finer 
than  on  the  night  of  her  debut ;  how  she  seemed  half- 
frightened  and  half-encouraged  at  her  reception.  She 
courtesied  so  gracefully,  she  smiled  so  bewitchingly, 
and  then  began  to  sing.  Well,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
people  were  somewhat  disappointed  at  her  voice  ;  they 
expected  more  of  it ;  greater  compass,  greater  volume, 
greater  flexibility,  greater  power ;  for  indeed  Piccolo- 
mini  is  not  a  great  singer  ;  but  she  is  a  woman  of 
genius ;  she  has  not  a  great  voice,  but  she  has  a  sympa 
thetic  one ;  she  has  the  power  of  expressing  feeling  in 
musical  notes ;  she  cannot  turn  you  out  tunes  with  the 
facility  of  Madame  Gassier,  whose  voice  is  as  completely 
under  her  control  as  if  it  were  a  hand  organ,  and  as 
soulless,  too ;  but  she  can  infuse  a  meaning  into  her  notes 
that  one  cannot  be  deaf  to  ;  that  goes  straight  to  the 
heart.  This  power  has  very  nearly  been  forgotten  by 
the  public.  Since  the  "  Traviata,"  Piccolomini  has  sung 
almost  exclusively,  in  comic  operas,  and  her  faculty  of 
sympathetic  singing  has  scarcely  been  called  into  play  ; 
but  she  possesses  it  in  a  large  degree.  Her  singing  in  the 
second  act  of  the  "  Traviata"  is  an  operatic  triumph,  is 
full  of  feeling  and  exquisitely  effective.  Indeed,  because 
she  acts  so  much  better  than  she  sings,  her  musical 
abilities  are  underrated  here.  Admit  that  her  voice  is 
not  powerful,  that  it  lacks  volume,  and  what  other 
requisite  is  absent  ?  She  sings  true,  her  voice  is  pure, 
is  eminently  sweet,  and  fresh ;  her  method  is  correct,  her 
phrasing  perfect ;  her  appreciation  of  the  composer's 
idea  always  admirable,  and  always  indicated.  If  some 
times  the  deficiency  of  her  vocal  powers  prevents  an 


Piccolomini.  343 

entire  rendering  of  this  idea  musically,  does  not  her 
dramatic  talent  take  up  the  idea  and  completely  deve 
lop  it  ? 

Of  course,  no  one  denies  her  dramatic  talent ;  but, 
because  she  is  so  irresistibly  bewitching  in  comedy,  the 
public  again  fails  to  do  entire  justice  to  her  action  in 
serious  operas.  She  herself  prefers  such  ;  she  likes  the 
role  of  Violetta  better  than  that  of  Zerlina  ;  she  prefers 
weeping  to  smiling ;  she  likes  to  fling  her  beautiful  arms 
and  toss  her  beautiful  hands  in  all  the  "loveliness  of 
tragic  sorrow,"  (as  Mr.  Fry  calls  it,)  better  than  fasci 
nating  us  by  the  coquetries  of  Serpina  or  the  naughty 
naturalness  of  the  Vivandi&re.  She  is  very  anxious  to 
sing  in  an  opera  of  Donizetti's,  the  libretto  of  which  is 
founded  on  Chateaiibriand's  novel  of  "  Les  Martyres," 
and  the  plot  of  course  is  tragic.  She  clapped  her  hands 
and  looked  as  delighted  as  a  child  when  she  told  me  that 
she  would  soon  appear  in  this  opera.  First  she  described 
it  to  me  ;  told  me  how  delightfully  tragic  it  is,  how  mov 
ing  the  music,  how  fine  the  role  of  the  martyr.  "  And 
will  you  sing  it  ?"  "  Yes !"  with  a  beaming  eye  and  a 
childish  glee.  "This  season?"  "Yes!"  more  delighted 
than  ever ;  and  I  vowed,  if  she  should,  I'd  go  every 
night  to  applaud. 

By  the  way,  have  you  noticed  her  applaud  when  she 
is  not  on  the  stage  ?  She  claps  away  for  Gazzaniga  so 
vigorously  that  I'm  half  afraid  she'll  fall  from  her  chair. 
She  throws  bouquets,  she  waves  her  handkerchief,  and 
is  entirely  forgetful  of  herself.  She  laughs  and  cries  just 
like  an  ordinary  auditor.  I  went  into  her  box  on  the 
night  of  "  Robert  le  Diable  ;"  she  told  me  she  was  one 
of  the  public  now\  I  asked  her  how  she  liked  being  one : 


344  The  Vagabond. 

Very  well,  but  she'd  rather  be  on  the  stage.  "  Oh,  I  as 
sure  you,  there  is  nothing  like  the  stage ;  ah,  me !  the 
applause !  Ce  sont  les  plus  belles  choses  du  monde,  les 
applaudissements!"  And  she  looked  like  a  little  Corinne 
as  she  spoke.  I'm  sure  she  deserves  to  be  crowned  at  the 
capitol.  For  was  there  ever  any  more  exquisite  senti 
ment  than  that  portrayed  by  her  in  the  first  act  of  the 
"  Traviata ; "  anything  more  delicate  or  more  natural 
than  the  first  feeling  of  love  indicated  on  her  mobile 
face ;  anything  more  sadly,  truly,  beautifully  done  than 
the  parting  with  her  lover  in  the  same  opera  ?  She  is 
not  a  Violetta,  however;  no  lorette  was  ever  so  refined 
in  bearing;  no  Traviata  ever  so  shiinkingly,  modestly, 
delicately  loved,  as  she. 

But  what  archness,  what  supreme  comic  genius  in 
the  music  lesson  of  "  La  Figlia  del  Reggimento.-' 
How  she  worries  and  mimics  her  old  aunt;  how  wick 
edly  she  stands  and  picks  out  the  feathers  in  the 
old  lady's  coiffure ;  how  she  lays  her  music  on  the  back 
of  the  marchioness ;  how  she  pats  her  foot  in  lillipu- 
tian  rage ;  how  she  tears  and  twists  her  sheet  of  paper 
with  vexation ;  how  she  looks  at  the  corporal  impatiently 
and  finally  rushes  to  his  arms  to  sing  the  rat-a-plan !  Then 
her  Zerlina !  whether  in  the  ball-room,  smoothing  her 
clothes  and  gazing  in  wonder  at  the  dancers,  or  coquet 
ting  with  the  Don,  or  making  up  with  Masetto,  she  is 
the  very  ideal  of  comedy  ;  as  irresistibly,  as  provoking- 
ly  funny  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine,  but  so  exquisitely 
refined  with  it  all  ;  twisting  her  face  into  all  sorts  of 
pretty  grimaces ;  winking  and  blinking,  frowning  and 
pouting,  coaxing  and  wheedling ;  but  always  as  pretty,  as 
the  Bible  says,  "  as  apples  of  gold  set  in  pictures  of  silver." 


Piccolomini. 


345 


And  that  saucy,  rattling,  mad-cap,  Serpina ;  and  that 
Viodel  of  waiting-maids,  Susanna;  surely  these  were 
never  so  portrayed  before  ;  no  wonder  Almaviva  forgets 
his  countess  for  such  a  servant ;  no  wonder  Hubert  was 
fool  enough  to  let  his  housekeeper  have  her  own  way. 
Oh  !  she  must  have  been  a  princess.  Whether  the  pass 
port  is  right  or  not,  I  don't  know;  whether  the  Cle- 
mentinis  are  related  to  the  Piccolominis  or  not,  I  don't 
care,  but  this  little  Maria  is  a  princess  by  nature.  She 
has  a  passport  that  is  quite  as  good  here  as  in  Sienna ;  and 
people  understand  it  too,  who  never  studied  Italian,  any 
more  than  she  has  English.  Apropos  :  You  should  hear 
her  speak  English,  or  try  to.  That  tiny  little  mouth  gets 
all  pursed  up  and  puckered  in  her  attempts  to  pronounce 
the  words  stuck  so  full  of  consonants,  and  she  laughs 
merrily  at  her  own  mistakes.  One  morning  she  had 
been  practising  some  difficult  passage  in  the  "  Figlia  del 
Reggimento,"  and  ran  up  to  the  piano,  to  try  it  again. 
She  repeated  the  strain  several  times  till  it  was  perfect, 
and  then  turned  to  me  with  the  air  of  a  conqueror,  and 
exclaimed  in  very  pronounced  style,  "  All  d right !"  And 
so  she  is  "  all  dright." 

The  public  thinks  so.  Everybody  thinks  so.  The 
young  men  are  in  love  with  her,  of  course;  they 
say  one  of  the  most  fashionable  fellows  in  town  has 
proposed  to  marry  her ;  and  I  know  an  old  fogy  who 
hasn't  missed  a  night  at  the  opera  since  her  debut.  He 
seems  cold  and  careless  enough ;  you  would  never  sus 
pect  him  of  sensibility ;  but  the  princess  or  the  prima 
donna,  or  the  woman,  has  taken  him  captive  ;  has  found 
out  the  way  to  his  heart,  and  grandpa  wipes  his  glasses 
very  often  when  she  sings  Violetta,  and  laughs  till  he 


346  The  Vagabond. 

cries  when  she  acts  Serpina.  He  leaves  his  business  tc 
go  to  the  matinees,  and  I  don't  doubt  his  slumbers  are 
disturbed  by  dreams  of  the  Piccolomini.  Then  the  wo 
men  are  not  jealous ;  even  the  big  ones  do  not  scruple  to 
acknowledge  her  tiny  charms ;  and  the  little  ones  are 
ready  to  worship  her  for  proving  how  charming  a  little 
woman  can  be.  Nobody  supposes  that  she  is  the  greatest 
singer  in  the  world ;  nobody  is  humbugged,  nobody  is 
mistaken ;  but  everybody  is  fascinated.  They  go  to  see 
the  most  bewitching  little  body  now  in  America;  to  no 
tice  her  wonderful  manner,  to  laugh  at  her  thousand 
tricks  of  behavior,  to  be  delighted  with  her  smile,  with 
the  twinkle  of  her  eye,  the  grace  of  her  movements,  and 
the  soul  that  is  everywhere  evident  in  her  action.  Pic 
colomini  has  succeeded  as  few  prima  donnas  ever  have 
done ;  and  the  reason  is  because  she  is  full  to  the  brim, 
overflowing  with  feeling ;  sprightly  or  sentimental,  ex 
quisitely  comic  or  delightfully  tragic,  but  always  true, 
always  natural.  Like  Imogen,  indeed,  her  action  does 
outsell  her  gift,  which  is  her  voice ;  but  how  enriches 
it  besides ! 


A  NIGHT  WITH  THE  BOOTHS. 

"  Insignia  ipse,  digno  patre  natus." 

GREA.T  actors  seem  to  be  regarded  with  a  peculiar 
and  personal  interest.  The  world  wants  to  hear  about 
their  doings  off  the  stage  as  well  as  on  ;  the  "  Memoirs 
of  Rachel"  is  the  most  successful  book  of  the  season, 
and  anecdotes  of  Roscius  or  pictures  of  Garrick  are  pre 
served  as  carefully  as  royal  autographs  or  originals  by 
Guido.  The  fleeting  triumphs  of  the  stage  are  thus 
perpetuated  by  tradition ;  and  the  fame  of  the  mimic 
sovereigns  is  sometimes  as  lasting  as  that  of  the  real 
monarchs  who  lorded  it  so  loftily.  And,  indeed,  now 
that  both  are  gone,  wherein  is  George  III.  better  off 
than  Garrick  ?  The  tinsel  crown  lasted  its  owner  as 
long  as  that  which  blazed  on  the  head  of  the  Defender 
of  the  Faith ;  the  sceptre  of  each  has  passed  into  other 
hands. 

I  spent  a  night,  not  long  ago,  with  young  Booth  at 
the  old  country  place  of  his  father,  rummaging  the 
theatrical  wardrobe  ;  reading  letters  from  Edmund  Kean 
and  the  elder  Mathews,  from  Elliston  and  Macready  ; 
looking  over  playbills  printed  in  1810  ;  picking  out  the 
history  of  a  lifetime  from  fragments  of  dresses  and 
leaves  of  books,  and  reading  a  remarkable  character 
from  manifestations  made  only  to  its  intimates.  It  i? 


348  The  Vagabond. 

quite  a  history.  The  young  actor  and  I  started  from 
Baltimore  at  noon,  and  drove  about  twenty-five  miles 
before  reaching  the  farm.  We  neither  of  us  were  par 
ticularly  conversant  with  the  management  of  horses 
under  difficulties  ;  and  when  the  harness  broke,  as  it 
did  once  or  twice,  Romeo  and  the  Vagabond  were 
in  a  quandary  indeed.  The  tragedian  often  enough 
calls  out  "  his  kingdom  for  a  horse,"  but  I'm  sure  he'd 
much  rather  have  had  a  groom  just  then  ;  and  when  the 
carriage  stuck  in  the  mud,  we  could  only  imitate  the 
classic  countryfellow,  and  call  on  our  gods,  but  with  as 
little  success  as  he.  Finally  I  turned  Phaeton  and  held 
the  reins,  while  Roscius  set  to  work  and  played  farrier, 
being  positively  his  first  appearance  in  the  part.  We 
lost  a  shoe,  and  lamed  a  horse,  and  broke  the  tackle 
some  half-a-dozen  times,  but  at  last  got  safely  at  the  fine 
old  homestead  where  young  Booth  was  born.  'Tis  a 
beautiful  spot.  None  of  your  carefully  laid  out  villas  ; 
no  grottoes,  or  gardens  or  fountains ;  no  gravelled 
walks  or  conservatories,  but  such  a  place  as  I  prefer  to 
anything  of  the  more  fashionable  sort.  A  remote  and 
lonely  precinct :  the  house  stands  back  a  long  way  from 
the  county  road,  and  is  approached  through  a  wood  ; 
'tis  situated  in  an  opening,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  a  thick  growth  of  trees ;  the  whippoorwill  and  the 
raccoon  are  neighbors  ;  some  fields  of  meadow-land  or 
corn  hard  by,  relieve  the  landscape,  and  an  acre  or  two 
immediately  beside  the  house  was  evidently  once  a 
lawn  ;  'tis  now  uncared  for,  and  overgrown  with  rank, 
high  grass.  The  building  that  stood  when  the  elder 
Booth  bought  the  farm  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  is 
given  over  to  a  squad  of  negroes  who  labor  on  the  place, 


A  Night  with  the  Booths.  345 

while  the  dwelling-house,  some  six  or  seven  years  old, 
has  constituted  until  recently  the  abode  of  his  family. 
They  now  prefer  a  town  residence,  and  when  we  reached 
the  building,  it  had  not  been  occupied,  nor  indeed  opened, 
for  many  months. 

We  had  the  keys,  however,  and  after  giving  our 
horses  in  charge  of  a  venerable  black  who  declared  he 
had  had  "  Massa  Edwin  himself  in  charge  more  than 
once,"  we  entered  the  mansion.  'Twas  nearly  dark, 
and  cobwebs  reached  across  the  door;  most  of  the  fur 
niture  had  been  removed ;  in  fact  all  but  a  few  book 
cases  and  tables.  We  ransacked  drawers  and  closets 
for  old  books,  and  letters,  and  journals,  and  pamphlets, 
and  we  found  them.  Books  in  every  language  ;  Latin 
and  Greek,  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  Portuguese,  Eng 
lish,  all  thumbed  and  marked,  and  full  of  apposite  quo 
tations  ;  the  classics  of  each  language  with  plays  and 
dramas  by  all  sorts  of  people  in  all  sorts  of  tongues. 
Terence  and  Lope  de  Vega,  Shakspeare  and  Tait,  Ben 
Jonson  and  Racine  lay  side  by  side  on  the  shelves  with 
the  production  of  some  nameless  vagabond,  who  had 
sent  his  effort  in  manuscript  to  old  Booth  for  inspection. 
Plays  whose  names  alone  were  familiar  to  me  ;  some  of 
which  I  had  never  heard  or  read  ;  some  that  had  been 
performed ;  some  that  had  been  damned ;  some  marked 
for  the  stage,  with  the  blank  page  interleaved,  and  full  of 
directions;  some  with  famous  autographs  on  the  fly 
leaf;  some  with  uncut  leaves.  Then  there  were  novels, 
and  poems  and  metaphysical  works,  and  especially  the 
masterpieces  of  Spanish  literature.  The  Koran,  too, 
we  found,  and  pored  over  it,  getting  authority  for  all 
sorts  of  wickedness  ;  and  concluded  'twould  be  a  much 


350  The  Vagabond. 

pleasanter  vade  mecum  for  young  men  than  the  religious 
book  of  the  Giaours. 

Before  long,  darkness  overtook  us ;  but  we  were  pre 
pared  for  all  emergencies,  and  had  brought  candles  from 
a  country  shop  on  the  road.  What  to  stick  them  in 
was  the  question.  Mambrino's  basin  did  service  better 
than  when  it  was  transformed  into  a  helmet,  and  the 
experience  of  my  comrade  suggested  other  expedients 
for  lighting  the  scene.  One  was  that  I  should  serve  as 
a  candlestick,  after  the  fashion  of  the  martyrs  in  Nero's 
time  :  he  had  seen  something  of  the  sort  on  the  stage,  I 
suppose.  This,  however,  did  not  take  my  fancy  as  it 
did  his,  and  we  compromised  by  sticking  the  candle  in 
an  old  shoe.  Then  we  sat  on  the  floor  together,  in  a 
closet,  and  revelled  over  our  treasures.  First  one  would 
cry  out  at  a  fresh  discovery  ;  then  the  other  exclaimed 
as  he  struck  a  vein  or  came  upon  a  placer. 

Letters  and  journals,  as  well  as  books,  were  open  to  the 
scrutiny.  Engagements  offered  to  Junius  Booth  nearly 
half  a  century  ago ;  particulars  of  his  quarrel  with 
Edmund  Kean ;  invitations  to  the  box  of  the  elder 
Mathews ;  witty  notes  from  Elliston  were  tumbled  by 
turns  out  of  old  trunks  and  corners,  where  they  had 
lain  till  they  were  mouldy.  The  piles  of  play-bills  had 
a  wonderful  fascination  for  me.  The  first  appearance  of 
Edmund  Kean  and  Junius  Brutus  Booth  in  the  same 
piece  was  announced  ;  the  debut  of  Booth  in  America ; 
the  first  night  of  the  "  Apostate,"  in  which  the  son  now 
plays  the  part  the  father  once  declined.  It  was  strange 
to  look  at  these  bills  that  were  first  handled  fifty  years 
ago,  and  three  thousand  miles  away ;  that  told  of  the 
pleasures  of  people  long  since  in  their  graves.  Manager, 


A  Night  with  the  Booths.  351 

and  actor, and  audience,  all  have  passed  away,  and  hero 
were,  we  two  young  men  wondering  and  gossipping  over 
all  that  remained  of  what  was  once  so  interesting. 
These  little  bits  of  paper  called  up  the  scene  very  vividly. 
I  could  imagine  the  crowded  house,  and  the  green  cur 
tain,  and  the  applauding  audience,  as  they  must  have 
appeared  long  before  I  was  born ;  and  as  I  looked  up  at 
the  face  of  my  companion,  all  aglow  with  interest,  it  was 
no  difficult  task  to  summon  the  handsome,  expressive 
countenance  his  own  is  said  to  be  so  like,  and  to  fancy 
the  person  and  powers  of  the  great  actor  whose  genius 
as  well  as  whose  manly  beauty  he  inherits.  The  plays 
were  many  of  them  the  very  same  in  which  young  Booth 
excels.  I  saw  the  bills  printed  when  the  father  was  at 
the  exact  age  of  his  son  to-day :  Sir  Giles  Overreach, 
Richard  III.,  Sir  Edward  Mortimer  were  in  as  much  de 
mand  in  England  in  '19,  as  they  are  in  America  in  '59. 
So  I  thought  of  the  long  career  of  triumphs  the  father 
had  gone  through,  and  wondered  whether  fate  had  in 
store  for  the  youth  at  my  side  a  corresponding  history, 
as  she  had  already  showered  on  him  corresponding  gifts. 
There  was  a  tinge  of  soberness  in  our  mirth.  The  glee 
with  which  we  gloated  over  these  strange  treasures 
could  not  but  be  tinctured  by  thoughts  of  the  utter 
oblivion  into  which  much  of  what  had  once  been  so  in 
tensely  present  had  for  ever  sunk ;  and  as  we  saw  the 
parts  so  familiar  cast  to  names  we  never  heard,  though 
we  talked  not  much  of  sentiment,  I  am  sure  we 
both  felt  it.  Then,  too,  in  the  midst  of  these  memen 
toes  of  the  father,  we  came  upon  a  pile  of  play-bills 
belonging  to  the  son,  and  compared  the  casts ;  we 
thought  of  the  time  when  some  vounsrsters  would  be 


352  The  Vagabond. 

looking  over  these  very  lists,  and  we  should  have  long 
since  mouldered.  The  candles  were  getting  low,  you 
see. 

We  were  neither  of  us  good  at  snuffing  them  ;  and 
more  than  once  overturned  stand  and  all  in  our  ill- 
judged  attempts,  besides  blacking  our  fingers.  The 
time  passed  away  very  quickly,  and  when  Hamlet  took 
out  his  watch  and  made  me  guess  the  hour,  I  said  ten 
o'clock,  though  it  was  past  two.  We  had  made  no  ar 
rangements  for  sleeping;  there  was  no  bedding  in  the 
house ;  but  we  were  having  a  night  of  it,  and  concluded 
the  adventure  bravely.  Armed  with  candles,  we  roamed 
around  the  rooms,  and  finally  put  two  sofas  together,  and 
discovered  an  old  mattrass.  But  the  night  was  cool, 
and  we  must  have  some  covering ;  so  Roscius  got  into 
the  old  wardrobe  of  his  father,  pulled  out  an  ermine 
cloak  that  belonged  to  Macbeth,  and  some  of  the  trap 
pings  of  Shylock  or  Lear,  and  tossed  them  to  me.  I 
made  a  pillow  out  of  the  very  mantle  of  Cassar  through 
which  the  envious  dagger  ran,  and  slumbered  quietly 
enough,  though  Macbeth  had  murdered  sleep  in  the  robe 
that  kept  me  warm.  We  talked  away  long  after  our 
candles  had  burned  out ;  previous  to  which  I  induced 
Hamlet  to  read  me  some  funny  stories,  and  when  he  got 
tired  of  reading,  to  tell  me  more ;  so  I  fell  into  a  doze, 
with  his  voice  ringing  in  my  ears ;  and  he  may  tell 
of  having  put  one  auditor  to  sleep  by  his  monotonous 
delivery.  I  warrant  you,  some  of  his  fair  admirers 
would  not  have  slept,  so  long  as  he  talked,  and  doubtless 
they  envy  me  my  snooze  on  his  arm.  But  'twas  dark, 
and  I  couldn't  see  his  eyes;  besides,  I  had  seen  them  all 
day. 


A  Night  with  the  Booths.  353 

Next  morning  we  rose  late ;  the  bed  was  so  good,  that 
nnt  till  eleven  did  I  heir  the  tragedian  rouse  me  with  the 
first  words  that  Sir  Edward  Mortimer  speaks  in  the  play. 
We  went  out  to  the  pump  to  make  our  toilettes,  and 
then  opened  a  tin  kettle  containing  sandwiches  we  had 
brought  from  the  country  tavern.  The  negroes  gave  us 
milk,  but  we  had  no  confidence  in  their  cleanliness,  and 
washed  a  broken  cup  and  an  old  plate  that  we  found,  for 
ourselves.  This  breakfast  equipage  was  disposed  on  a 
garden  table,  and  Hamlet  did  the  honors  very  gracefully. 
The  banquetting  scene  was  not  disturbed;  no  ghost 
entered  with  gory  locks ;  but  you  should  have  seen 
Lear  washing  a  tea-cup,  and  Romeo  making  the  beds. 
However,  he  had  a  way  of  doing  even  these  that  wras 
worth  looking  at ;  and  moody,  and  morose  and  quiet  as 
he  often  is,  was  full  of  wit  and  geniality  with  me.  He 
quoted  Shakspeare  constantly  and  felicitously ;  he  made 
faces  for  me  out  of  all  his  plays ;  he  looked  like  Richard 
when  he  says  :  "  What  do  they  in  the  north  ?"  and  struck 
the  attitude  of  Richelieu  when  he  launches  the  curse  of 
Rome.  In  this  vein,  we  went  to  the  wardrobe,  and  had 
another  hour  of  sport. 

He  got  out  old  wigs — one  that  Kean  had  worn  in 
Lear :  the  very  one  that  was  torn  from  his  head  in  the 
mad  scene,  and  yet  the  pit  refused  to  smile ;  he  found 
me  his  father's  in  Othello,  and  put  it  on  to  show  the 
look.  There  was  a  picture  of  the  elder  Booth  hard  by 
on  the  wall,  and  the  likeness  was  mai'vellous.  He  told  me 
the'history  of  this  sword,  and  a  story  about  that  red  cloak ; 
he  dressed  me  up  in  toggery,  and  then  decorated  himself 
for  a  farce,  declaring  he  would  have  made  a  hit  in  Little 
Toddlekins,  only  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  be  funny. 


354  The  Vagabond. 

On  our  way  to  town  we  stopped  at  the  cemetery, 
where  the  worthy  son  of  a  distinguished  father  has  erected 
a  beautiful  and  costly  monument  to  the  memory  of  the 
great  actpr  whom  he  resembles.  'Tis  an  obelisk  of  po 
lished  Italian  marble,  on  a  pedestal  of  undressed  granite, 
some  twenty  feet  high,  and  the  work  of  Carew,  the  emi 
nent  Boston  sculptor.  On  one  side  are  the  dates  of  the 
birth  and  death  of  the  tragedian,  with  his  name  in  full; 
on  another,  simply  the  word  Booth ;  on  the  third  is  a 
medallion  head,  full  of  character  and  beauty,  remarkable 
both  as  a  work  of  art  and  as  the  representation  of  a 
noble,  soulful  face — 'tis  extremely  like  the  profile  of  the 
son.  The  third  side  also  bears  this  inscription : 

"  His  life  was  gentle ;  and  the  elements 
So  mixed  in  him,  that  Nature  might  stand  up, 
And  say  to  all  the  world — This  was  a  man." 


SOCIETY  AND  ART. 

"  O.  had  I  but  followed  the  arts!" 

Twelfth  Ni(,ht. 

SIR  ANDREW  AGUE  CHEEK  is  not  the  only  man  who 
has  regretfully  exclaimed  in  his  heart :  "  I  would  I  had 
bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues  that  I  have  in  fencing, 
dancing,  and  bear-baiting."  There  are  those  whom  you 
and  I  may  see  all  around  us,  who  say,  though  not  aloud : 
"  O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts !"  There  are  many, 
too,  who  are  only  made  conscious  of  their  own  de 
ficiencies  when  the  attainments  of  others  become  con 
spicuous  :  who,  being  naturally  destitute  of  any  taste  or 
feeling  for  the  beautiful,  do  not  discover  the  existence  of 
the  beautiful  till  they  hear  those  around  them  discussing 
it ;  who  have  bestowed  their  time,  if  not  in  fencing  and 
dancing,  in  making  money — a  very  laudable  occupation, 
doubtless,  and  one  whose  results  are  often  productive  of 
much  advantage  to  the  arts,  but  which,  if  too  closely 
pursued,  is  apt  to  leave  its  follower  in  the  condition  of 
the  knight  in  the  play.  When  I  hear  these  fools  who 
have  fine  houses  criticise  the  pictures  that  they  can't  tell 
from  daubs ;  when  I  hear  those  whose  eyes  are  stone 
blind  to  the  exquisite  harmonies  of  color  and  the  deli 
cate  graces  of  form,  whose  ears  are  deaf  to  the  shading 
in  music,  and  much  more  to  the  soul  embodied  in  its  ex 
pression,  condemn  Murillo  and  call  Beethoven  dull,  I 


356  The  Vagabond. 

often  want  to  bid  them  study  "  Twelfth  Night,"  and 
learn  how  the  shallow  gentleman  fared  even  at  the  hands 
of  a  chambermaid. 

It  is  the  fashion  for  people  who  have  large  houses  and 
walls  inside  them,  to  cover  their  walls  with  pictures ;  it 
is  the  fashion  to  have  statuary  in  the  halls,  and  statuettes 
on  the  mantels ;  but  I  know  a  dowager  who  bought  a 
couple  of  busts  and  christened  them  after  she  got  them 
home,  and  to  this  day  she  shows  for  heads  of  Corneille 
and  Racine,  what  can  easily  be  recognised  as  present 
ments  of  Dante  and  Tasso.  I  doubt  if  the  good  lady 
can  tell  whether  Dante  wrote  Racine  or  Tasso  painted 
Corneille.  I  have  even  been  shown  a  picture  of  the 
Cenci,  that  was  painted  expressly  for  a  young  and  ardent 
lover  to  present  to  his  inamorata  ;  she  looked  at  the  gift, 
and  thought  it  very  pretty.  "  But  why  do  you  call  it, 
the  Cenci  ?  Why  don't  you  call  it  Julia,  after  me  ?"  Poor 
Julia  lost  her  lover  because  she  hadn't  followed  the  arts. 
There  are  people  that  talk  about  music  and  don't  know 
a  false  note  when  they  hear  it,  much  less  a  true  one  ; 
they  prate  about  Piccolomini's  lack  of  execution,  and 
comment  glibly  on  the  peculiarities  of  the  tenors,  and 
I  am  not  sure  but  they  think  Formes  is  one  of  the  last. 
However,  because  such  creatures  as  these  exist,  because 
such  ignoramuses  live  and  move  and  have  their  being  in 
a  Christian  land,  is  not  to  say  that  all  are  like  them. 
This  is  to  fall  into  the  fashion  ever  to  be  deprecated,  of 
confounding  the  goats  with  the  sheep ;  of  taking  a  vulgar 
herd  for  examples  of  the  cultivated  few. 

I  am  weary  of  those  who,  familiar  only  with  persons 
capable  of  Mtises  like  those  I  have  described,  imagine 
such  to  be  the  only  types  of  New  York  society.  Doubt- 


Society  and  Art.  357 

less  there  are  many  such  people ;  people  with  whom 
wealth  is  an  all-sufficient  passport ;  people  whose  time  is 
spent  in  dressing  and  feasting ;  who  live  in  grand  houses, 
and  wear  diamonds  and  ermine ;  who  fare  sumptuously 
every  day ;  who  go  through  the  routine  of  fashionable 
life ;  pay  visits  and  receive  them,  give  parties  and  go  to 
them,  frequent  the  watering-places  and  make  the  grand 
tour,  and  in  the  eyes  of  outsiders  pass  for  individuals  of 
social  distinction,  but  who  have  no  more  access  to  the 
true  society  of  this  metropolis  than  if  they  lived  in  Kam- 
echatka;  who  are  well  enough  aware  themselves  that 
their  money  can  buy  them  no  admission  to  circles  where 
many  poorer  folk  are  petted  and  sought.  I  am  weary 
of  those  who  insist  that  they  who  make  the  most  bruit 
are  the  standards  of  manners.  Noisy,  blatant,  ignorant, 
assuming,  uneasily  conscious  of  their  own  deficiencies, 
they  strive  to  cover,  by  ostentatious  parade,  those  defi 
ciencies  in  culture  and  refinement  that  never  can  be 
covered,  and  in  the  newspapers  and  novels,  in  the  esti 
mation  of  strangers  who  have  never  really  seen  New 
York,  they  are  recognised  for  what  Mr.  Curtis  calls 
"  our  best  society.''  He,  too,  who  knows  so  much  bet 
ter  ;  who  is  intimate  in  circles  where  real  culture  reigns. 
For  there  are  people  here,  in  this  much-abused  New 
York,  who  have  been  gently  bred ;  who  have  seen  the 
most  distinguished  companies  abroad ;  whose  culture 
and  taste  in  literature  and  art  are  mature ;  whose  man 
ners  are  as  elegant  as  their  accomplishments ;  whose  sub 
jects  of  conversation,  often  light  indeed,  are  always 
graceful ;  who  take  an  interest  in  pictures ;  who  read 
new  poems  and  study  and  appreciate  old  ones  ;  who  are 
often  the  bearers  of  historic  names  and  the  inheritors  of 


358  The  Vagabond. 

splendid  fortunes  ;  honors  which  they  Wear  becomingly, 
conscious  of  the  advantage  and  consideration  to  be  de 
rived  therefrom ;  but  whom  noblesse  oblige  ;  who  avoid 
vulgar  wealth,  but  far  from  being  snobbish,  seek  out  and 
delight  in  the  association  of  talent,  no  matter  how  hum 
ble  ;  whose  position  is  so  well  established  that  they  are 
not  afraid  of  injuring  it;  whose  only  object  in  exclusive- 
ness  is  to  keep  themselves  aloof  from  coarseness  and 
ignorance.  They  are  accomplished  without  being  pe 
dantic  ;  they  have  travelled  and  are  not  unpatriotic ; 
they  are  people  of  the  world  without  being  frivolous ; 
fond  of  gaiety  and  fashion,  but  of  an  elevated  and  re 
fined  sort ;  they  do  very  many  of  the  same  things  that 
their  imitators  do,  but,  as  Goneril  says  to  herself: 

"  0,  the  difference  of  man  and  man  I" 

Within  these  circles,  moving  on  a  perfect  equality 
with  the  most  fortunate,  are  many  families  not  so 
wealthy ;  many  not  so  old  ;  neither  birth  nor  fortune  is 
an  indispensable  requisite,  though  these  are  acknow 
ledged  of  course  as  good  things,  as  desirable ;  as  likely 
to  conduce  to  the  culture  and  breeding  of  their  posses 
sors.  New  people,  whose  tastes  and  manners  fit  them, 
move  here ;  persons  of  talent  without  any  other  preten 
sions  are  gladly  received.  Do  you  call  this  a  fancy 
sketch?  Do  you,  alas!  know  no  such  circle?  Have 
you  never  seen  the  inside  of  such  houses  ?  I  am  sorry 
for  you  ;  but,  because  your  experience  is  limited,  don't 
be  incredulous,  my  unfortunate  friend.  Like  Richard, 

"Live  in  hope." 

"  All  men,  I  hope,  live  so.'' 


Society  and  Art.  359 

These  are  the  "people  whose  intercourse  with  artists  if 
so  mutually  delightful;  who  recognize  the  claims  of 
art  to  give  its  student  a  social  status ;  who  imitate,  after 
a  fashion,  Alexander,  when  he  picked  up  the  pencil  of 
Apelles :  they  acknowledge  that  mind  fits  its  possessor 
for  the  company  of  the  highest.  Titian  and  Charles  V. 
were  intimate ;  Talma  and  Napoleon.  And  I  couldn't 
but  think  last  week,  as  I  looked  around  on  the  various 
groups  at  the  Artists'  Reception,  how  the  stamp  that 
nature  had  impressed  on  some  of  the  men  there  made 
them  first ;  how  fashion  was  really  paying  homage  to  art 
and  picking  up  its  pencil.  The  fact  that  fashion  pays 
this  homage  speaks  volumes  for  New  York  culture.  In 
England  an  artist  is  not  on  a  level  with  the  first  in  the 
land ;  a  man  of  letters  is  rarely  so ;  you  remember 
Clive  Newcome  and  Frank  Vance ;  intellectual  eminence 
does  not  procure  standing  of  another  sort.  Here  it  is 
the  intellectually  distinguished  who  are  most  sought 
after.  And  how  worthily  they  bear  their  honors !  how 
fitting  it  seems  for  them  to  receive  honors !  Their  man 
ners  are  very  naturally  suitable  for  a  courtly  atmosphere. 
How  can  they  be  anything  but  refined  whose  brains  are  full 
of  such  exquisite  fancies  ?  How  can  they  be  other  than 
courte  HIS  and  dignified  who  are  embodying  such  courtesy 
and  dignity  in  their  art  ?  I  have  known  men  devoted  to 
art  who  had  scarcely  ever  been  inside  of  a  drawing-room, 
who  were  afraid  of  a  brilliant  and  fashionable  woman ; 
who  never  had  any  contact  with  the  great  or  the  gay 
world  ;  I  have  known  some  such  intimately,  and  they 
Avere  as  exquisitely  refined  in  every  idea  and  sentiment,  as 
free  from  any  taint  of  vulgarity,  as  lofty  in  their  sense  of 
honor,  as  innately  delicate  in  feeling,  as  the  most  studied 


360  The  Vagabond. 

gentleman  whose  breeding  is  the  result  of  years  of  polish, 
and  whose  bearing  is  inherited  like  his  family  plate. 

For  that  matter,  I  have  also  known  men  come  of  old 
and  distinguished  races,  whose  estates  have  been  held 
by  people  of  their  name  for  centuries,  whose  family  had 
been  gentle  longer  still,  and  yet  they  were  so  intrinsi 
cally  and  essentially  coarse,  vulgar,  boorish,  that  neither 
blood  nor  culture  could  eradicate  the  taint.  These  in 
stances  were  indeed  rare  on  both  sides  ;  the  latter  for 
tunately  the  rarer.  As  for  me,  I  don't  want  to  know 
any  one  because  his  grandfather  was  a  gentleman,  unless 
he  is  one  too,  though  I  own  he  is  likely  to  continue  in 
the  line  of  descent ;  and  I  do  want  to  know  men  natu 
rally  and  by  instinct  gentle,  whether  they  have  what  we 
call  good  blood  in  them  or  not.  Their  blood  is  good. 
I  was  reproved  once,  and  righteously,  by  a  man  of  as 
good  blood  as  any  in  the  country.  It  was  after  this 
wise.  We  were  talking  of  some  distinguished  woman 
of  exquisite  manners,  whose  origin  I  supposed  to  have 
been  obscure,  and  inquired,  "  Was  she  a  lady  by  birth  ?" 
"  She  was  a  lady  by  nature,"  said  he.  And  he  was 
right. 

But  I  am  getting  away  from  my  theme ;  only  I  have 
long  wanted  an  opportunity  to  say  this  much  about  New 
York  society ;  to  maintain  that  though  there  are  many 
people  who  are  quite  as  bad  as  the  bitterest  satirists  say, 
there  are  also  others  of  a  different  sort ;  who  may  be  no 
better  in  reality ;  I  don't  suppose  that  culture  or  refine 
ment  changes  people's  characters ;  men  of  education 
may  be  just  as  wicked  as  ignorant  ones ;  the  finest  gen 
tleman  may  hate  you  as  heartily  as  a  blackguard,  though 
he  will  not  tell  you  so  in  the  same  language.  He  will 


Society  and  Art.  361 

kill  you  in  a  duel,  but  not  use  foul  words.  I  don't  con 
tend  that  those  who  constitute  the  really  elegant  society 
of  New  York  are  better  Christians,  or  better  men  and 
women  than  others ;  but  I  think  it  hard  they  should  be 
charged  with  the  sins  of  the  others. 

In  the  new  and  delightful  novel  of  "Ernest  Carroll," 
a  work  written  with  elegance  and  often  with  eloquence, 
and  evidently  the  production  of  a  scholar,  the  character 
of  an  American  is  portrayed,  who  is  imbued  with  the 
tastes  and  feelings  and  sentiments,  who  acknowledges 
the  restraints  and  performs  the  duties  and  fills  the  ideal 
of  a  gentleman ;  a  gentleman  who  is  an  artist,  an  artist 
who  is  a  gentleman.  The  author  of  that  work  deserves 
the  thanks?  of  American  artists  and  American  gentlemen 
for  proving  that  the  chai'acters  can  be  combined,  that 
they  have  so  many  points  in  unison ;  for  telling  the 
world  that  his  countrymen  are  not  all  Ague  Cheeks ; 
that  some  among  them  have  "  followed  the  arts." 


16 


LONGFELLOW. 

"  Sweet  and  commendable." 

Hamlet. 

I  DON'T  find  any  American  author  of  verse  at  all  c  oni- 
parable  with  Longfellow ;  nor,  indeed,  more  than  one 
poet  who  writes  the  English  tongue,  no,  nor  the  French, 
whose  works  I  prefer  to  read.  Tennyson  may  be  a  man 
of  more  original  genius,  of  profounder  thought,  of  lof 
tier  suggestiveness  and  deeper  feeling ;  but  he  speaks  to 
a  smaller  circle  than  his  cis-Atlantic  rival.  Could  you 
canvass  the  reading  world  to-day,  you  would  find  ten 
admirers  of  Longfellow  for  one  of  the  Englishman : 
this,  too,  among  people  of  average  culture  and  taste ; 
among  lovers  of  poetry.  Now,  the  fact  that  a  writer 
speaks  to  the  general  heart,  is  sure  evidence  of  his 
power.  As  for  Beranger  and  Victor  Hugo,  the  only 
recent  French  poets  who  are  much  known  out  of  France, 
perhaps  the  most  truly  poetical,  the  fullest  of  genuine, 
simple  pathos,  and  unstrained  sentiment  of  any  French 
writers,  early  or  late,  Longfellow  surely  will  not  suffer 
by  juxtaposition  with  these.  The  very  attributes  for 
which  they  will  hereafter  be  admired,  which  secure  them 
now  so  wide  a  circle  of  appreciative  readers,  are  those 
which  most  distinguish  him. 

He  does  not,  it  is  true,  take  rank  with  the  greatest 


Longfellow.  363 

poets ;  not  even  with  writers  of  the  power  of  Byron  or 
the  earnestness  of  Burns ;  he  cannot  be  compared  with 
the  creative  geniuses ;  nor  is  he  even  so  original  as 
Wordsworth,  the  Pre-Raphaelite,  or  so  exquisitely  rich 
in  fancy  as  the  subtile  Shelley.  The  poetic  phrensy  does 
not  seem  ever  to  have  inspired  him ;  there  is  no  trace 
of  a  lofty  imagination  in  his  works ;  no  trumpet  words 
that  stir  one  to  the  inmost  soul;  no  superb  kindling 
vision ;  no  power  of  utterance  that  embodies  the  eva 
nescent  glories  of  the  poet's  brain :  but  there  are  other 
phases  of 'power  that  still  deserve  the  name  of  poetry. 
There  is  an  imagination  which  is  delicate  and  graceful,  if 
not  gorgeous  or  inspired,  and  which  sees  the  ordinary  ob 
jects  of  nature  invested  with  hues  and  forms  of  gentle  love 
liness  ;  there  is  an  ability  to  set  distinct  and  vivid  pictures 
before  other  minds,  of  objects  and  characters,  even 
though  those  characters  and  objects  be  not  grand  or 
brilliant.  There  is  a  faculty  of  speaking  soft,  low  words 
that  touch  the  heart,  that  bring  tears  to  the  eyes,  that 
summon  up  pure  sentiment  and  genuine  feeling.  This 
is  akin  to  poetry :  this  .is  poetry. 

Mr.  Longfellow  possesses  these  powers — the  last  in  an 
especial  degree.  And  this  is  a  gift  utterly  unattainable ; 
he  who  has  not  true  pathos  may  strive  after  it  for  ever, 
but  his  efforts  will  be  unavailing :  it  comes  not  at  the 
bidding  of  any  man ;  it  must  be  innate.  And  who  that 
has  read  "  Evangeline,"  and  many  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
shorter  poems,  but  will  acknowledge  that  the  power 
pertains  to  him  as  remarkably  as  to  almost  any  living 
writer  ?  He  does  not,  it  is  true,  stir  up  profounder  pas 
sion,  but  he  touches  the  fountain  of  tears ;  he  lays  hold 
of  some  of  the  holiest  feelings  of  our  nature ;  the 


364  The  Vagabond. 

charms  of  domestic  life,  the  memories  of  the  dead  that 
lie  garnered  in  every  heart,  the  budding  promise  in  a 
young  and  thoughtless  child,  the  happy  confidence  of 
the  bride,  the  gentle  loves  of  youths  and  maidens  in  all 
the  purple  glow  of  early  life,  of  these  he  tells,  and  how 
sweetly!  These  he  recalls  to  those  who  fancy  that  the 
era  of  such  emotions  is  past  for  them ;  these  he  paints 
for  such  as  have  not  felt  them,  with  a  true,  earnest,  but 
touching  simplicity.  There  is  nothing  maudlin  about 
his  sentiment,  nothing  overdone  in  his  pathos :  he  is 
pure,  genuine,  just  in  his  taste — a  taste  so  pure  that  it 
must  be  instinctive,  and  not.  acquired.  His  sentiment  is 
not  the  lamentation  of  Sterne  over  a  dead  ass,  nor  the 
womapish  weakness  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  nor  the  lachry 
mose  sentimentality  of  Lamartine,  but  an  honest,  tender, 
gentle  Bathos,  which  cannot  fail  to  affect  any  uupervert- 
ed  heart.  Lines  like  those  on  "The  Old  Clock  on  the 
Stairs,"  like  the  "Voices  of  the  Night,"  and  the  few  but 
skilful  touches  in  "  Hiawatha,"  with  which  he  describes 
the  grief  of  the  Indian  over  Minnehaha's  death,  are 
genuine  poetry. 

Another  marked  characteristic  of  Longfellow  is  his 
picturesqueness ;  this  is,  of  course,  in  great  part,  owing 
to  the  Distinctness  of  his  mental  vision  :  he  has  a  paint 
er's  eye ;  he  does  not  .perceive  so  much  the  suggestive- 
ness'of  an  object  or  a  scene ;  nature  does  not  call  up  to 
him  the  pregnant  thoughts  that  she  sends  or  summons 
to  the  brains  of  some  who  write ;  but  he  looks  kindly 
on  her ;  he  discovers  her  apparent  beauties,  if  not  her 
recondite  ones — all  the  charms  of  her  person,  if  not 
those  of  her  soul.  He  may  not  penetrate,  perchance,  to 
the  hidden  significance  which  some  men  find  in  every- 


Longfellow.  365 

thing;  neither  has  he  that  peculiar  intensity  which  makes 
nature  alive  with  responsiveness  to  its  own  emotions, 
which  kindles  the  sky  and  the  sea  and  the  shore  into 
another  passion  answering  to  its  own ;  he  sees  not  the 
hell  of  waters  that  Byron  saw,  nor  the  passionate  storm 
that  fell  on  Lear ;  but  the  calm  glades  where  Alden  and 
Priscilla  walked,  the  bayous  of  Mississippi,  the  wildness 
of  Hiawatha's  woods,  and  the  sterner  quiet  of  Acadie 
— these  he  notes  in  all  their  freshness  and  their  natural 
ness.  These  he  describes  as  vividly  as  Goldsmith,  to 
whom,  in  many  things,  he  bears  a  close  resemblance. 
The  soothing  influence  of  his  poetry,  and  the  still  life  of 
his  pictures  also  remind  me  of  Durand  :  a  poem  by  Long 
fellow,  is  like  one  of  those  landscapes  you  must  have  seen 
— representing  a  warm  delicious  day  in  June,  with  cattle 
browsing  near  a  sluggish  stream,  overhanging  willows 
that  tempt  you  to  stroll  beneath  their  shade,  fields 
tinted  with  the  richest  verdure,  and  all  steeped  in  the 
bright  but  not  glaring  sunshine  in  which  Durand  delights 
— a  picture  such  as,  hung  up  in  your  room,  would  make 
you  gladder  and  better  ah1  day  for  gazing  at  it.  Long 
fellow's  cheerfulness,  his  tender  reminiscences  of  the 
past,  his  trust  in  the  future,  make  you  think  better  of 
men,  and  feel  kindlier  towards  them.  They  lay  the 
troubled  spirits,  they  dispel  your  haunting  doubts,  and 
for  a  while,  at  least,  exorcise  all  the  demons. 

Then  his  soft  music  lulls  whatever  might  interfere  with 
this  delightful  but  not  enervating  calm ;  so  flowing,  sweet 
and  melodious,  it  is  also  good  proof  of  poetic  ability ; 
for  the  gods  send  not  their  .gifts  singly.  The  power  he 
has  over  words,  the  exquisite  ear  which  detects  every 
jarring  syllable ;  the  taste  which  selects  at  once  the  most 


366  The  Vagabond. 

melodious  and  the  most  fitting  incarnation  for  his 
thought;  these  are  talents  that  are  denied  to  most 
writers.  This  power  over  language,  different  entirely 
from  mere  fluency,  is  peculiarly  evidenced  by  the  various 
forms  into  which  he  moulds  his  lines.  "  Hiawatha  " 
and  "  Evangeline  "  demonstrate  his  skill  in  versification, 
whether  the  use  of  the  forms  is  to  be  considered  success 
ful  or  not.  And  whatever  the  rhetoricians  may  say 
about  the  inapplicability  of  these  forms  to  the  English 
tongue,  the  world  has  decided,  and  Longfellow  has 
triumphed ;  he  has  wedded  his  gentle  fancies,  his  touch 
ing  pathos,  to  some  of  the  most  graceful  and  melodious 
verses  written  in  our  day.  He  has  varied  his  style  and 
yet  preserved  an  individuality  ;  like  him  who  plays  such 
different  tunes  on  a  chime  of  bells,  but  yet  plays  them 
always  so  that  you  shall  know  the  instrument  to  be  the 
same.  His  music  is  no  ^Eolian  harp  swept  by  unknown 
winds  and  wafting  to  us  weird  airs;  he  summons  up 
no  Christabel,  no  Ancient  Mariner;  he  pictures  the 
gentle  Evangeline  and  her  sorrows ;  he  sets  the  quaint 
courtship  of  John  Alden  vividly  before  the  eye.  He 
does  not  sound  the  profounder  depths  of  our  being,  nor 
lift  us  out  of  ourselves  in  an  exaltation,  but'  he  finds 
poetry  in  our  homes  and  on  our  hearthstones ;  he  sings 
the  songs  of  the  cradle,  and  of  the  bride  tremulous  with 
excitement  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  life ;  he  laments 
tenderly  and  touchingly  the  vanished  ones  whose  place 
shall  no  moi'e  be  filled  ;  he  paints  every-day  nature  and 
every-day  life,  but  invests  them  with  graces  and  charms 
that  all  may  find,  that  all  acknowledge  when  once  his 
touch  reveals  them. 

The  music  may,  perhaps,  sometimes  cloy;  if  any  fault 


Longtellow.  367 

is  to  be  found  with  his  sweetness,  it  is  too  constant,  not 
sufficiently  relieved  by  passages  of  wilder  or  more  une 
qual  measure.  And  as  a  man's  genius  is  always  mirrored 
in  his  style,  the  same  objection  can  be  bro'ught  against 
his  works.  There  is  not  only  an  individuality,  but 
almost  a  monotony  in  Longfellow  ;  there  is  no  mistaking 
him ;  he  rings  the  changes  till  you  not  only  recognize 
the  instrument,  but  the  player  too  ;  whether  in  the 
trochaics  or  the  hexameters,  whether  translating  so  ex 
quisitely  from  the  German,  or  Swedish,  or  Spanish, 
whether  describing  the  wars  of  Aludjekeewis,  or  the 
woes  of  the  French  peasantry  in  Acadia,  or  the  wooing 
of  Puritans  in  Massachusetts  Bay,  he  is  always  himself; 
he  looks  on  everything  with  the  same  kindly  vision,  in 
the  same  genial  spirit.  His  characters  are  not  dramatic ; 
you  see  the  poet  in  them  all,  not  them  all  in  the  poet ; 
he  is  neither  many-sided  nor  versatile  ;  he  cannot  disport, 
he  cannot  be  sublime :  but  why  should  we  quarrel  Avith 
a  man  for  being  himself  ?  If  he  were  otherwise,  the 
gentle  equability  which  at  times  delights  and  soothes, 
would  be  lacking.  You  cannot  have '  impetuosity  and 
finish ;  ardor  and  calm.  The  placid  lake  of  Geneva  is 
no  less  enchanting  because  Niagara  roars  and  tumbles 
on  another  continent ;  and  the  pleasing  melancholy  of 
stiU  evening  would  be  gone  if  the  crash  of  the  thunder 
or  the  rent  of  the  lightning  disturbed  its  sober  charm. 
There  are  hours  and  times  that  come  to  all  men  when  the 
delicate  pictures  and  soothing  influence  of  Longfellow 
and  Goldsmith,  are  more  acceptable  than  the  turbulence 
of  Byron  or  the  splendid  fervor  of  Dryden.  And  there 
are  many  who,  never  reaching  to  those  loftier  heights 
whither  more  exalted  genius  soars,  would  rather  dwell 


368  The  Vagabond. 

with  humble  livers  in  content,  than  perked  up  in  a  glis 
tering  sorrow.  To  such  men,  and  to  all  men  at  times. 
Longfellow  will  always  be  as  welcome  as  most  of  the 
poets  whose  works  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 


THE  END. 


CURIOSITIES 

OF 


BY    FRANCIS   T.    BUCKLAND,    M.A.,    OXFORD. 


1  Vol.  12mo.    Illustrated.    Price,  $1  25. 

From  the  London  Edition. 

"The  reader  need  not  apprehend  stereotype  anecdotes  of 
animals  in  this  capital  book,  by  the  son  of  the  late  celebrated 
geologist,  Dr.  BUCKLAND.  The  work  is  no  stale  repetition,  but 
enters  upon  a  new  field.  One  feels  as  if  he  were  rambling  in 
the  company  of  an  agreeable  and  well-informed  friend,  who  is 
ever  pointing  out  objects  of  interest,  even  in  the  most  unlooked- 
for  places.  Whoever,  for  instance,  has  hitherto  regarded  a  horse- 
pond  with  disgust,  will,  after  reading  a  few  pages,  take  a  sudden 
interest  in  its  contents,  and  look  upon  it  even  as  an  agreeable 
variety  of  Aquarium.  Then,  too,  the  curious  details  respecting 
Rats,  those  unfortunate  animals  who  may  be  said  to  have  no 
friends,  and  yet  seem  to  be  always  convivial.  Snakes,  also, 
and  fish  and  fishing  come  in  for  their  share  in  Mr.  Buckland's 
book.  Many  a  reader  will,  doubtless,  here  learn  to  his  surprise 
that  certain  kinds  of  fishes  are  known  to  make  nests.  Other 
things  too  will  he  get  a  hint  of,  that  will  startle  him  out  of  his 
apathy  to  facts  in  Natural  History.  It  would  puzzle  many  to 
answer  the  question,  Do  bats  lay  eggs  ?  It  would  puzzle  more 
how  best  to  rescue  a  friend  from  the  folds  of  a  Cobra,  Of  such 
matters  this  volume  is  full.  In  short,  it  is  a  curiosity  in  itself, 
and  shows  how  completely  a  clever  man,  thoroughly  impressed 
with  his  subject,  and  of  enlarged  knowledge  and  varied  expe- 
dence,  can  dispel  the  feelings  of  aversion  with  which  the  igno 
rant  and  thoughtless  have  been  wont  to  regard  some  of  the 
aumbler  members  of  the  animal  world. 

In  Natural  History,  as  well  as  in  other  researches,  it  is  too 
much  the  practice  to  copy  facts  and  observations  from  printed 
boots,  the  volume  of  Nature  herself  being  left  unopened.  It  has 
been  the  aim  of  the  author  to  search  into  this  wonderful  book, 
to  record  facts  which  came  under  his  own  eyes,,  at  the  same 
time  not  neglecting  the  numerous  works  and  lectures  of  cele 
brated  Naturalists;  and  the  book  before  us  is  probably  the  most 
complete  collection  of  instructive  and  anecdotal  sketches  upon 
the  interesting  subject  *of  Natural  History  which  has  ever 
appeared.  " 

***  Sold  by  all  Booksellers,  and  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  to  any  part  of  th« 
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A    GREAT    WORK. 


Just   Published    from    early  Glasgow   sheets,    by  special 
arrangements, 

The  Life  and  Times  of 
Hugh  "Miller, 

Auchor  of  "  Testimony  of  the  Rocks,"  "Old  Red  Sand 
stone,"  "Footprints  of  the  Creator,"  "Schools  and  School 
masters,"  &c.,  &c.  Prepared  by  THOMAS  N.  BROWN,  the 
Emintnt  Scotch  divine.  Muslin.  With  Steel  Portrait 
I2mo.  Price  $i  oo. 


The  life  of  so  remarkable  a  man  as  Hugh  Miller  can 
not  fall  to  excite  attention  and  interest.  The  mere  bio 
graphical  fails,  and  the  lesson  of  labor  and  triumph  which 
they  teach,  must  appeal  strongly  to  the  sympathies  of 
intelligent  and  thoughtful  readers.  The  name  of  Hugh 
Miller  is  a  "household  word"  wherever  the  English 
language  is  spoken.  Born  in  the  lowest  ranks  of  life,  his 
indomitable  will  and  wonderful  genius  raised  him  among 
the  master  spirits  of  science.  The  Stonemason  of  Cro- 
marty  is  admitted  to  be  the  greatest  Geologist  of  the  age. 
The  volume  announced  above,  presents  a  genial  and 
appreciative  pifture  of  the  Life  and  Times  of  this  mar 
vellous  man.  Written  by  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
a  former  co-laborer  with  him  on  the  celebrated  "  Wit 
ness"  newspaper,  and  a  resident  in  the  same  house  with 
the  subject  of  his  memoir,  the  author  had  abundant  oppor 
tunities  for  studying  his  noble  heart  and  manly  character — 
opportunities  which  have  proved  invaluable,  as  his  volume 
testifies  It  is  a  genuine  labor  of  love. 

Sold  by  all  Booksellers  throughout  the  United  States  and  Canadas. 
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Publishers  and  Booksellers, 


1  THB   MOST    DELIGHTFUL    LOVE  8TOEY  IN  THE    ENGLISH 

JUST    PUBLISHED, 

From  t?M  London  Edition, 

DOCTOR    ANTONIO, 

A  TALE,   BY  RUFFINI, 

(Author   of  "DEAK   EXPEBIENCE,"  and  "LOEENZO  BENONU") 

12wio.,  Elegantly  Sound  in  Cloth,  Illustrated 

PRICE,    $1.OO. 


A  BEAUTIFUL   STORY   OF  ITALY. 

The  demand  for  this  celebrated  work  having  exhausted  several  smaller  and 
cheaper  editions,  the  Publishers  are  now  happy  to  present  to  the  connoisseur 
and  lover  of  FINK  BOOKS,  such  a  copy  of  the  work  as  will  be  not  only  an 
ornament  to  any  Library,  but  a  valuable  addition  to  its  literary  character. 

No  European  Traveller,  who  has  loitered  along  the  enchanting  shores  of 
the  blue  Mediterranean,  near  NICE  and  GKNOA,  or  who  has  breathed  the 
dolcefar  niente  atmosphere  of  Southern  Europe,  but  will  seize  with  delight 
upon  this 

CHARMING   TALE   OF   LOVE, 

Interwoven  as  it  is  with  a  most  faithful  and  sympathetic  narrative  of  the  suf 
ferings  and  oppressions  of  Italy.  This  wonderful  Fiction  has  passed  through 
several  English  editions,  and  the  LEADING  BRITISH  REVIEWS  have  acknow 
ledged,  with  copious  extracts,  the  superiority  of  this  Novel  of  Modern  Italy. 
We  present  a  few  brief 

NOTI  CES. 

"  One  of  the  most  genuinely  successful  fictions  we  have  read  for  a  long  time 
past." — London  Leader. 

"The  materials  are  so  skilfully  arranged,  and  are  woven  tosether  in  such 
a  masterly  style,  that  the  attention  is  riveted  at  once,  and  the  interest  in 
spired  is  precisely  that  which  we  feel  when  we  suspect  that  the  story  may  be 
jrue.  In  a  word  Doctor  Antonio'  is  a  tale  in  a  thousand  '"—London  Critic. 

"This  book  is  superior,  as  a  work  of  interest,  to  its  predecessor 

Lucy  is  one  of  the  most  charming  impersonations  of  an  English  girl  we  have 
met  with  in  the  course  of  many  novels."— London  Athenceum. 

"The  scene  is  laid  in  Italy,  and  the  descriptions  of  its  scenery  make  us  feel 
Its  sunshine,  smell  its  flowers,  and  breathe  the  balm  of  its  air,  while  the  deep 
delight  of  us  influence  sinks  deep  into  the  soul.  The  customs  and  manners  of 
the  people  are  developed  in  the  tale,  and  the  complications  of  unhappy  but 
beautiful  Italy  for  the  few  past  years  are  detailed  briefly,  but  with  faithful  ac 
curacy  The  whole  book  is  elegantly  and  earnestly  written,  and  will  be  trea 
sured  after  it  is  read  for  that  intrinsic  merit  which  must  make  it  classic."— 
Frank  Leslie's  Ittuttrated  Paper. 

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New  York. 


ITALIAN    LITERATURE. 

JUST    PUBLISHED! 

THE  GBEAT  ITALIAN  NOVEL, 

BEATRICE  CENCI, 

A  Historical  Novel  of  the  1 6th  Century. 

BY  F.  D.  GUEKKAZZI. 

Translated  from  the  original  Italian  by  LUIGI  MONTI,  of  Harvard 
University.  12ino.,  bound  in  cloth,  two  volumes  In  one,  with  a  steel  en- 
giaving  after  the  celebrated  portrait  by  GU1DO  KENI.  Price  $1  25. 

»^» 

From  Morris  <&  Willis's  Home  Journal. 

"  There  will  undoubtedly  be  a  great  desire  felt  to  see  this  volume — Gu*,r 
razzi  is  probably  the  most  distinguished  of  living  (Italian)  authors,  and  we 
are  glad  to  know  that  the  modern  literature  of  Italy — with  which  we  are 
but  little  acquainted — will  be  inaugurated  by  so  brilliant  a  specimen  of 
novel  writing  as  this  is.  The  life  of  Beatrice  has  been  generally,  indeed 
we  may  say  entirely,  misunderstood;  but  Guerrazzi  has  shown  us  in  his 
very  powerful  work,  completed  after  careful  labor,  what  is  probably  the 
Correct  exposition  of  this  sad  history.  Every  one  has  read  Shelley's  tra 
gedy  of  the  'CKNOI,'  and  those  fortunate  enough  to  have  extended  their 
travels  as  far  as  Italy,  remember  as  one  of  the  loveliest  specimens  of  art, 
the  ever  admired  and  copied  portrait  of  Beatrice  by  Guide,  now  in  the 
gallery  of  the  Barberini  Palace." 

Guerrazzi  in  his  Preface  to  this  work  says,  addressing  the 
unfortunate  shade  of  Beatrice: 

"  Inasmuch  as  I  have  been  able  to  comprehend  thee,  Implore  for  me 
sufficient  power  to  narrate  worthily  thy  history  to  these  dear  Italian 
maidens,  who  love  thee  as  a  sister  just  departed,  though  the  shadow  of  two 
centuries  and  a  half  is  spread  over  thy  sepulchre.  Verily  thine  is  a  history 
of  sad  crimes;  but  the  maidens  of  my  country  will  read  it.  When  tho 
youth  whom  they  love  is  approaching,  they  will  hasten,  blushing,  to  hide 
it;  but  they  will  read  it,  and  will  offer  thee  the  only  gift  that  can  be  given 
to  the  betrayed — tears." 

The  effect  of  this  powerful  work  upon  the  impassionate  and 
vehement  Italian  reader  is  such,  that  certain  of  the  governments 
have  interdicted  its  publication,  and  it  is  now  rarely  seen  in  Italy. 

<&W~  A  mutilated  and  feeble  translation  of  this  famous  novel  has  been 
hastily  published  by  another  house  in  this  city,  thus  violating  trade  eti 
quette,  as  our  edition  has  been  announced  several -months.  The  reader, 
therefore,  who  desires  a  faithful  and  vigorous  translation,  by  an  accom- 

Elished  Italian  scholar,  should  be  particular  to  buy  the  edition  translated 
y  LUIGI  MONTI,  and  with  the  sanction  of  HAKVAKD  UNIVERSITY 
AS  it  is  the  only  genuine  legitimate  edition  in  the  English  language. 
Sold  by  all  Booksellers  throughout  the  United  States  and  Canadas. 
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MILES   STANDISH   ILLUSTRATED. 
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TRUE  LOVE  NEVER  DID  RUN  SMOOTH. 

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BEATRICE   CENC1. 

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ISABELLA   ORSINI. 

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DOCTOR    ANTONIO. 

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AFTERNOON  OF  UNMARRIED  LIFE. 

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TWO  WAYS  TO  WEDLOCK. 

A  Novellette.  Reprinted  from  the  columrs  of  Morris  ft 
Willis'  New  York  Home  Journal.  *mo.  Hand 
somely  bound  in  muslin.  Price  $  oo, 

HAMMOND'S  POLITICAL  HISTORY. 

A  History  of  Political  Parties  in  the  State  of  New  York. 
ByjABEZ  B.  HAMMOND,  L.L.D.  3  vols.,  octavo,  with  steel 
portraits  of  all  the  Governors.  Muslin.  Price,  $6  co. 

ROMANCE   OF   A   POOR   YOUNG    MAN. 
From  the  French  of  OCTAVE  FEUILLET.     An   admirable 
and    striking    work    of  fiction.     Translated    from  the 
Seventh  Paris  edition,      izmo.     Muslin,  price  $i    oo 


-art  or  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 

By  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE.  A  charming  edition  0f' ~thii 
world-celebrated  Faery  Poem.  Printed  on  tolored 
plate  paper.  Muslin,  izmo.  Frontispiece.  Price,  50  cts. 

y 

THE  NEW  AND  THE  OLD ; 

Or,  California  and  India  in  Romantic  Aspects.  By  J. 
W.  PALMER,  M.D.,  author  of  "  Up  and  Down  the  Irra- 
waddi."  Abundantly  illustrated.  Muslin,  I2mo.  $1,25. 

UP  AND  DOWN  THE  IRRAWADDI; 

Or,  the  Golden  Dagon.  Being  "passages  of  adventure  in 
the  Burman  Empire.  By  J.  W.  PALMER,  M.D.,  author 
of  "  The  New  and  the  Old."  Illustrated.  Price,  $  i  ,00. 

THE   HABITS   OF   GOOD   SOCIETY. 

An  interesting  handbook  for  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  ;  with 
thoughts,  hints,  and  anecdotes,  concerning  social  obser 
vances,  taste,  and  good  manners.  Muslin,  price  $1  25. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

A  private  manuscript  journal  of  home  events,  kept  during 
the  American  Revolution  by  the  Daughter  of  a  Clergy 
man.  Printed  in  unique  style.  Muslin.  Price,  $1,00 

HARTLEY  NORMAN. 

A  New  Novel.  "  Close  and  accurate  observation,  enables 
the  author  to  present  the  scenes  of  everyday  life  with 
great  spirit  and  originality."  Muslin,  izmo.  Price,  $1,25. 

MOTHER   GOOSE  FOR   GROWN  FOLKS. 

An  unique  and  attractive  little  Holiday  volume.  Printed 
on  tinted  paper,  with  frontispiece  by  Billings,  izmo. 
Elegantly  bound  in  fancy  colored  muslin,  price  75  cts. 


Date  Due 


PRINTED   IN   U.S./ 


CAT.    NO.   24    161 


00054792 


